THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

MUSIC  LIBRARY 


GIFT 
OF 


Benno  Rubinyi 


^ 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  witii  fundingfrom 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/etliicsaestheticsOOsteriala 


ETHICS  AND   ESTHETICS 

OF 

PIANO-PLAYING 


ETHICS  AND  ESTHETICS 

OF 

PIANO-PLAYING 

By 
CONSTANTIN   VON   STERNBERG 

Price,  $1.25  not. 


1^ 


G.  SCHIRMER 
New  York  •  Boston 


Copyright,    1917,   by 
G.   SCHIRMER 

27155 


Music  Llbraci 

ML 


To 
Josef  Hofmann 

whose  masterly  artistry 

has  inspired  many  of  its  thoughts 

and  strengthened  many  into  convictions, 

this  booklet  is  inscribed 
in  token  of  an  old  and  devoted  friendship. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Man  and  Art  1 

The  Interpretative  Artist  8 

The  Lay  Auditor  14 

The  Three  Phases  of  Understanding  20 

Rules  Are  Not  Laws  27 

Old  Errors  33 

Accent  50 

Tempo  71 

Tone-Measuring  Through  the  Ear  86 

Conclusion  98 


ETHICS  AND   ESTHETICS  OF 
PIANO-PLAYING 


Man  and  Art. 


The  reciprocal  relations  between  life  and 
art  have  in  all  ages  attracted  the  attention  of 
great  thinkers.  Ever  since  the  days  of  Thales 
of  Miletus — over  two  centuries  before  Plato — 
the  speculators  on  this  subject  have  formed 
an  unbroken  line  reaching  to  our  present  age 
and  their  speculations  are  so  interesting  as  to 
reward  an  attentive  reader  well  for  his  patience. 
Even  when  succeeding  ages  proved  the  conclu- 
sion of  their  anteriorsto  be  erroneous,  one  almost 
regrets  to  part  with  such  errors;  for  they  arose 
from  systems  of  thought  conceived  in  honesty 
and  sincerity,  and  with  astonishing  ingenuity. 

The  purpose  of  this  little  volume  requires 
no  more  than  a  brief  summing  up  of  the  net 
results  of  these  speculations.  This  summariz- 
ing is  greatly  simplified  by  the  circumstance 
that  in  more  recent  times  mere  speculation 
has  blossomed  into  practical  investigation. 
Philosophy,  from  its  lofty  base  of  abstract 
thought,  has  reached  out  into  the  more  material 
[11 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

realms  of  physics  and  biology,  and  has  thus 
obtained  results  of  a  nature  so  practical  and 
relatively  simple  that  they  can  be  summed 
up  in  a  very  few  words. 

It  is  evident  at  the  outset  that  such  life 
as  is  merely  organic  cannot  stand  in  any 
relations  of  mutuality  to  art.  It  may  inspire 
art,  but  it  is  incapable  of  receiving,  much  less 
absorbing,  its  returns.  Hence,  the  only  form 
or  type  of  life  admitting  of  mutual  relations 
with  art  is  "conscious"  life. 

Now,  of  all  manifestations  of  conscious  life, 
Man  has  fairly  good  reason  to  regard  himself 
as  both  the  most  complete  and  the  most 
complex.  What  is  the  nature  of  the  "conscious- 
ness," whence  it  comes  (scientifically  speaking), 
whither  it  leads,  are  questions  which  will 
probably  never  be  answered.  It  makes  very 
little  dliTerence  whether  we  accept  the  prac- 
tically identical  teachings  of  Goethe,  Huxley 
and  Darwin  or  those  of  Agassiz,  Neumeister 
and  Chamberlain;  it  matters  not  whether  Man 
is  involuted  from  all  lower  orders  of  creation 
and  inherits  the  aggregate  of  the  physiological 
and  spiritual  experience  from  all  species,  or 
only  from  his  own — in  neither  doctrine  can  we 
find  the  faintest  glimpse  of  enlightenment  as 
to  the  processes  by  which  Man  developed  his 
consciousness  of  life  and  self.  But  we  do  know 
that  he  has  attained  to  this  consciousness;  we 
[2] 


Man  and  Art 


know  that  this  consciousness  is  a  living  force; 
and  we  also  know  a  little  of  the  mightiness  of 
this  force.  For  by  its  exercise  Man  has,  in  large 
measure,  subordinated  the  blind  forces  of  nature 
to  his  will  and  has  projected  his  intellect  far 
beyond  the  range  of  his  mere  bodily  existence. 
With  this  power  Man  encompasses  the  macro- 
cosm and  microcosm  of  the  known  universe  and 
by  this  power  he  is  driven  to  search  still  further 
for  the  Unknown — yes,  even  for  the  Unknow- 
able. 

Containing  thus  within  himself  the  sum  of 
all  that  precedent  life  through  which  he  was 
evolved  from  other  species  or  from  his  own; 
containing,  consequently,  the  presage  of  some 
form  of  life  still  higher  than  his  own;  Man 
must,  logically,  have  more  to  say  for  himself 
than  all  his  evolutional  precursors,  and  there- 
fore needs,  more  than  any  of  them,  the  greatest 
number  and  variety  of  instruments  through 
which  to  express  the  struggle  of  the  human  spir- 
it. Forthis  innate  craving  for  individual  expreS' 
sion  is  the  chiefest  attribute  of  conscious  life. 

But,  we  might  ask,  what  is  the  aim  and 
purpose  of  expression?  Is  it  merely  to  portray 
or  translate  human  impulses  with  no  end 
beyond  itself?  Is  it  merely  a  mechanical 
reflex  action  of  nerve  stimuli  and  hence  an 
effect  rather  than  a  cause?  It  is  not  so  in 
the  animal  kingdom.  The  animal  uses  its 
[3] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

cry  for  a  purpose.  It  calls  for  food,  for  its 
mate,  for  relief  in  pain,  for  help  in  danger  or 
as  a  warning  of  it  to  its  kindred.  Should 
Man  alone,  then,  express  himself  without  a 
purpose.''  Should  Man  alone  not  feel  the 
need  of  placing  himself  in  reciprocal  relation 
with  his  environment.'*  And  should  Man  con- 
fine his  expression  to  his  physical  needs,  like 
an  animal,  and  let  his  richer  inner  life  remain 
unrepresented.?  There  seems  to  be  no  room 
for  such  a  thought  when  we  reflect  how  nu- 
merous and  how  diversified  are  the  forms  of 
expression  which  he  has  already  evolved  and 
which  he  strives  with  untiring  energy  to  extend 
in  scope  and  number. 

The  desire  for  communication  is  rooted  in 
Man.  It  is  an  instinct.  Not  merely  to  express, 
but  to  communicate  himself,  Man  has  evolved 
language.  And,  not  satisfied  with  this,  he 
has  one  by  one  enlisted  every  organ  of  per- 
ception to  this  end.  Moreover,  he  has  multi- 
plied the  services  of  every  organ  in  such  ways 
as  to  enable  him  to  substitute  one  for  the 
other.  Thus  has  he  made  the  word  of  his 
mouth — intended  primarily  for  the  ear  of  his 
fellowman — accessible  to  the  eye  through  script 
and  print.  Thus  has  he,  when  words  proved 
inadequate  to  his  purpose,  evolved  other 
vehicles  of  thought  and  feeling,  such  as  design, 
color,  tone,  rhythm,  harmony,  gesture,  etc., 
14] 


Man  and  Art 


and  has  again  multiplied  the  employment  of 
these  in  countless  ways.  Thus  Man  has 
finally  evolved  Art*  And  let  us  thoroughly 
understand  that  he  evolved  Art  to  provide 
for  necessities  not  a  whit  less  insistent  than 
those  inherent  in  his  physical  existence. 

No  sooner  did  he  find  his  physical  necessities 
provided  for  by  Nature  than  there  dawned  in 
him  the  consciousness  of  a  life  within  himself, 
not  altogether  independent  of,  yet  entirely 
apart  from,  any  merely  creature  phenomenon. 
When  he  came  to  a  realization  of  this  inner 
life,  the  Art-instinct  awoke  in  him.  However 
crude  the  manifestations  of  his  instinct  were, 
however  primitive  his  script,  his  images  and 
decorations,  let  us  bear  well  in  mind  that  each 
of  them  in  its  turn  and  place  expressed  that 
which  he  could  utter  through  no  other  medium. 

Let  the  prosaic  or  vulgar  Boeotian,  who 
disparages  Art  as  a  mere  luxury,  remember 
that  "life"  and  "existence"  are  not  synonyms, 
but  almost  antonyms.  True,  for  that  mere 
"existence"  which  Man — created  in  God's 
image — justly  scorns.  Art  is  quite  unnecessary. 
Yet  to  his  spiritual  "life"  Art  is  no  more  a 
luxury  than  food  is  to  his  stomach.  For  it 
is  not  Man's  physical  body  alone  that  demands 
to  be  fed.     His  mind,  soul,  intellect,  reason, 

*The  term  "Art"  is  used  here  in  its  Continental  European 
sense,  meaning  an  expression  of  purely  psychic  processes. 
[S] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

imagination,  in  short,  all  that  serves  to  develop 
and  fill  out  his  inner  life,  requires  to  be  supplied 
with  such  food  as  he  cannot  obtain  without  the 
aid  of  Art. 

All  that  lifts  Man  above  the  animal,  subsists 
more  or  less  directly  upon  Art.  But  for  Art, 
the  past  would  have  remained  as  unknown  to 
Man  as  it  is  to  the  animal.  Every  archaeologist 
will  bear  out  this  statement.  Religion  might 
still  be  struggling  with  the  darkness  of  bar- 
barism but  for  the  services  that  Art  has  ren- 
dered it.  In  its  cause,  Art  has  attuned  the 
mind,  through  the  senses,  to  things  spiritual 
and  celestial.  Even  the  concrete  Sciences, 
becoming  conscious  of  their  imperfections,  have 
called  in  the  assistance  of  Art.  In  short, 
without  Art,  every  distinction  between  the 
savage  and  modern  Man  falls  to  the  ground, 
for  in  Art — and  in  Art  alone — Man  has  re- 
corded the  stages  of  his  psychic  development. 
In  Art  Man  writes  the  history  of  his  soul. 

The  young  art-student  should  derive  strength 
from  such  reflections.  When  dismaying  ex- 
periences turn  him  from  belief  to  doubt; 
when  he  is  jostled  aside  by  heartless  money- 
hunters;  when  sordid  critics  deprecate  or 
ridicule  his  vocation;  let  him  remember  how 
lofty  and  instinct  with  human  dignity  is  the 
cause  to  which  he  has  vowed  allegiance — ■ 
how  worthy  it  is  of  his  best  endeavors,  of 
[6] 


Man  and  Art 


his   undivided   aspirations,  of  his   noblest  de- 
votion. 

The  student  should  be  animated  by  this 
spirit  not  only  in  his  workroom,  but  in  the 
whole  of  life.  His  personal  conduct  as  well 
as  his  work  should  reveal  the  presence  of  that 
inspiring  self-respect  which  the  ideal  nature 
of  his  task  seems  necessarily  to  invoke. 


171 


The  Interpretative  Artist. 

Art,  then,  is  a  psychic  message.  A  message 
from  soul  to  soul.  What  is  its  chiefest  require- 
ment? What  can  be  more  important  to  a 
message  than  that  it  reach  its  destination? 
A  message  must  be  received  and  understood. 
A  message  sent  by  wireless  telegraphy,  finding 
no  syntonic  receiver,  is,  so  far  as  we  know, 
energy  lost  in  space.  A  work  of  Art  that  is 
not  understood  is  in  a  similar  way  a  mis- 
carriage and  without  result.  Both  messages 
presuppose  the  recipient's  familiarity  with  the 
language  in  which  they  are  expressed;  but, 
taking  this  for  granted,  let  us  ask  whether  it  is 
always  possible  for  the  author  of  a  message 
to  be  also  its  transmitter  or  deliverer.  Does 
not  the  word  "message"  denote  communication 
through  an  agency?  When  a  message  is  indited, 
only  half  of  its  purpose  is  attained.  For  the 
other  half  it  needs  a  messenger.  This  messenger 
must  be  trustworthy,  reliable,  clever  and,  often, 
courageous.  Such  messengers  are  rare — very 
rare;  but  the  master  in  Art  sets  his  message 
free  and  lets  it  take  its  chances  of  finding 
deliverers.  The  test  has  never  failed.  The 
messenger  has  always  appeared. 

Now,  if  a  messenger  realizes  the  importance 
of  his  service  he  will  at  once  exert  his  utmost 
ingenuity  to  perfect  his  equipment.  He  will 
[8] 


The  Interpretative  Artist 


increase  his  speed,  more  surely  provide  for  his 
safety  and  reliability,  in  short,  he  will  use  his 
best  powers  to  make  himself  more  and  more 
worthy  of  his  trust. 

This  done,  he  will  expand  his  sphere  of 
action.  Messages  are  sometimes  couched  in 
terms  too  lofty,  too  scholarly  or  too  ambiguous 
for  the  intelligence  of  the  recipient;  in  such 
cases  the  messenger  becomes  an  interpreter^ 
translating  the  too  scholarly  wording  into 
more  colloquial  terms  or  defining  the  too 
ambiguous  words  more  clearly.  Furthermore, 
when  the  message  devolves  some  unwelcome 
task  upon  the  recipient,  the  messenger  resorts 
to  personal  persuasion  to  sweeten  his  message. 
Thus  he  develops  step  by  step  from  a  mere 
messenger  into  a  representative,  deputy,  envoy, 
ambassador,  minister  plenipotentiary!  And  he 
obtains  these  promotions  solely  by  means  of 
his  interior  ingenuity  and  merit. 

If,  for  the  sake  of  analogy,  we  give  but  a 
moment's  thought  to  the  vast  wealth  invested 
in  the  organization  of  the  mails,  telegraphs, 
railroads,  delivery  systems  of  all  kinds  in  our 
civilization,  and  reflect  that  these  elaborate 
devices  are  adapted  to  fulfill  the  physical  life 
of  modern  Man,  we  cannot  wonder  that  the 
task  of  transmitting  the  intangible  realities 
from  mind  to  mind  should  tempt  Man's  in- 
genuity in  at  least  an  equal  degree. 
19] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

Not  every  one,  conversant  with  the  language 
of  sentiment  and  emotion,  is  inspired  to  make 
new  revelations,  but  there  are  some  who  are 
fully  capable  of  fathoming  and  interpreting 
them  when  they  are  made  and  of  bringing 
them,  through  their  interpretation,  within  the 
mental  reach  of  those  to  whom,  but  for  this 
noble  service,  they  would  have  remained  in- 
soluble mysteries. 

Here,  then,  in  this  vicarial  office,  we  salute 
the  interpretative  artist — the  actor,  singer,  elo- 
cutionist, virtuoso;  the  esthetic  essayist;  the 
literary,  pictorial  and — that  rarest  of  all  inter- 
preters— the  musical  critic. 

How  much  creative  genius  owes  to  inter- 
pretative genius,  or  on  which  side  the  obli- 
gations are  greater,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
say;  for  they  are  not  different  degrees,  but 
altogether  different  types,  of  genius;  yet  they 
are  connected  by  so  close  a  kinship  as  to  make 
an  exact  calculation  of  their  mutual  indebted- 
ness impossible.  Neither  can  accomplish  any- 
thing without  the  other. 

As  a  messenger  is  accountable  to  both 
sender  and  recipient  of  his  message,  so  is  the 
interpretative  artist  in  a  position  of  twofold 
trust  and,  therefore,  of  twofold  responsibility. 
The  sender  of  his  message — creative  genius — 
is  behind  him;  before  him  sits  an  expectant 
and  confiding  audience,  the  sovereign  addressee. 
[10] 


The  Interpretative  Artist 


The  interpretative  artist  has,  therefore,  first 
to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  his  message;  to 
penetrate  its  ultimate  meaning;  to  read  in, 
as  well  as  between,  the  lines.  And  then  he 
has  to  train  and  develop  his  faculties  of 
delivery,  of  vital  reproduction,  to  such  a  degree 
as  to  enable  him  to  fix  his  message  decisively, 
and  with  no  danger  of  being  misunderstood, 
in  the  mind  of  his  auditor. 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  the  integrity  of  these 
relations  is  far  oftener  violated  than  respected. 
Very  much  of  current  music-making  is  gone 
through  with  in  blank  indifference  to  the  com- 
poser's intentions  and  with  utter  disregard  of 
the  auditor's  just  claim  to  an  honest  interpre- 
tation. The  amount  of  singing  that  is  done 
with  no  higher  aim  than  to  display  the  voice 
of  the  singer  or  the  singer's  laryngeal  dexterity 
may  be  inferred  from  the  sad  circumstance 
that  the  vast  majority  of  opera-goers  are  no 
longer  attracted  by  the  Opera  itself;  but  are 
interested  in,  and  applaud,  only  the  famous 
vocalists  who  figure  in  it.  It  is  still  worse 
with  piano-playing.  The  singer  who  ignores 
the  composer's  ideas  may  still,  and  often 
does,  show  a  compensating  respect  for  his 
audience  by  a  lavish  display  of  the  sensuous 
charms  of  his  well-trained  voice.  Pianists  fail 
rather  often  to  grant  their  listeners  even  the 
meagre  indemnity  of  flattering  their  ears  with 

mi 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

a  fine  touch  and  noble  tone.  Particularly  is 
this  true  of  amateurs  and  students,  who  are 
usually  so  fully  occupied  with  their  everlasting 
technic  as  to  lose  sight  completely  of  the 
very  aim  and  purpose  of  their  playing.  It 
usually  does  not  satisfy  them  to  play  what 
they  could  play  well.  They  gauge  the  value 
of  a  piece  by  its  mechanical  difficulty — seldom 
by  its  beauty.  So,  they  would  rather  play  a 
difficult  piece  badly  than  an  easier  piece  en- 
joyably,  and  the  auditor  has  "to  pay  the 
piper."  The  average  pianist  is  so  deeply  con- 
cerned about  his  "success,"  too,  that  he  is 
apt  to  forget  the  import  of  the  work  he  is 
playing. 

The  attitude  of  the  musically  untutored 
auditor  in  such  cases  hinges  upon  his  sincerity. 
If  he  is  candid  he  will  say  that  he  "does  not 
like  the  music,"  without  discriminating  be- 
tween the  composition  and  the  player.  If  a 
•social  diplomat,  he  will  compliment  the  player 
upon  his  skill  and  add,  with  sham  regret, 
that  the  composition  was  "a  little  beyond" 
him.  In  neither  case  will  the  blame  be  laid 
upon  the  person  who  alone  is  responsible  for 
the  failure  to  bring  the  composer  and  the 
auditor  into  rapport.  The  player  fails,  mani- 
festly, in  his  sole  duty — in  his  sole  province 
and  function.  The  auditor,  however,  dares 
not  suspect  that  any  one  should  have  the 
[12] 


The  Interpretative  Artist 


effrontery  to  interpret  for  him  what  the 
interpreter,  himself,  has  not  understood,  and 
therefore  the  culprit  goes  unpunished,  and 
may — and,  alas,  does — continue  to  sin  with 
impunity. 

Now,  if  the  innocent  auditor  could  have 
the  faintest  suspicion  that  (in  most  cases)  his 
failure  to  understand  a  composition  was  due 
to  defects  in  the  player,  the  situation  might 
assume  a  very  different  aspect.  The  hearer 
might  resent  inconsiderate  piano-playing  as  an 
impertinence.  But,  misled  by  his  humility 
and  ignorance,  he  does  not  suspect  the  true 
conditions,  and  unscrupulous  piano-playing 
has  thus  an  open  field. 


1131 


The  Lay  Auditor. 

And  yet  the  musically  untutored  visitor  at 
Concerts,  the  layman,  is  the  most  legitimate 
auditor  in  the  house.  Incidentally,  he  is  also 
the  most  numerous;  and  majorities,  even 
though  mostly  in  the  wrong,  have  to  be 
reckoned  with.  Besides,  is  it  not  just  the 
untutored  who  is  to  be  brought  under  the 
refining  influence  of  good  music.''  A  concert 
habitue,  conversant  with  the  conventions  of 
high-class  music,  seeks  pleasure,  edification, 
uplift  in  the  artist's  work;  but  the  untutored 
in  music — why,  he  is  the  very  heathen  whom 
the  art-missionary  seeks.  Missionary  and 
messenger,  by  the  way,  are  words  derived 
from  the  same  root. 

Let  us  confess  that  our  learned  auditor  is 
seldom  a  reliable  critic  or  a  just  judge.  Almost 
invariably  he  has  a  bias  of  some  sort;  he 
prefers  some  school  of  composition,  some  style, 
or  some  musical  form,  to  others,  and  any 
composition  not  reflecting  his  favorite  type  or 
class  is  apt  to  receive  no  more  than  lukewarm 
praise,  no  matter  how  much  merit  it  may 
display.  Richard  Wagner's  bitterest  enemies 
were  learned  musicians,  especially  among  those 
high  in  positions  of  authority.  Wherever  the 
[14] 


The  Lay  Auditor 


public  were  free  to  express  or  exercise  their 
judgment,  they  took  very  quickly  to  his  art. 
And  his  was  by  no  means  an  isolated  or  even 
a  very  exceptional  case. 

The  layman  is,  at  first,  very  much  opposed 
to  good  concerts.  The  brass-band  and  the 
street-organ  still  have  a  strong  hold  on  him. 
He  is  mystified  by  Beethoven,  but  he  loves 
"Home,  Sweet  Home."  This  proves  that  he 
loves  some  music,  and,  naturally,  prefers  the 
type  that  is  within  his  mental  horizon.  Nor 
is  his  indifference  to  Beethoven  altogether 
inexplicable,  for  he  cannot  possibly  form  an 
estimate  of  that  master  except  by  way  of  some 
imterpreter. 

Now,  who  gives  him  his  first  impressions  of 
Beethoven?  Usually  it  is  his  daughter,  whose 
teacher,  in  good  orthodox  fashion,  entrusts 
the  "Moonlight  Sonata"  to  the  child's  tender 
mercies.  A  girl  of  fourteen  or  sixteen — and  a 
Beethoven  Sonata!  A  girl,  or,  for  that  matter, 
a  boy,  who  has  no  conception  of  anything 
musical  beyond  a  correct  use  of  the  fingers  on 
the  keyboard  (if  that  much),  and  of  this  only 
enough  for  a  little  modern  parlor-piece;  who 
knows  nothing  of  construction,  who  is  as  yet 
without  depth  of  feeling,  without  breadth  of 
mind,  whose  power  of  thought  is  but  little 
developed;  such  a  boy  or  a  girl  brings  home  a 
Beethoven  Sonata,  murders  it,  of  course,  and 
US] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

when  Papa  feels  in  the  mood  for  asking  for 
"some  music,"  rattles  it  off  with  the  air  of  a 
meat-chopper.  How  can  any  sane  being 
derive  a  liking  for  Beethoven  from  such  an 
introduction?  It  is  inconceivable.  Let  this 
man  drift  into  a  good  recital;  let  him  listen 
to  a  strong,  beautiful  and,  above  all,  clear 
interpretation  of  the  same  Sonata,  and  his 
idea  of  Beethoven  will  undergo  a  vast  change. 
It  may  even  serve  to  convert  him  to  good 
music  forever.  Once  converted,  a  man  of 
that  sort  will  be  a  very  reliable  critic.  For 
he  will  demand  that  the  pianist  give  him  the 
musical  sense  of  a  composition.  Feeling,  sen- 
timent, emotion,  virtuosity,  he  will  accept 
and  appreciate,  but  not  before  he  has  caught 
the  rhythms,  melodies  and  other  traits  of  the 
piece — its  drift,  its  great  outline;  in  short,  the 
content  instead  of  the  empty  form  of  what  has 
been  written.  How  few  of  the  swagger  vir- 
tuosos who  visit  America  succeed  in  conveying 
this  internal  quality  to  their  audiences.'*    And 

as  for  amateurs.'' 1 

The  formal  musical  content  of  the  pieces  on 
a  concert-program,  the  musical  sense^  is  all 
that  can  be  paid  for  at  the  box-office.  What 
the  pianist  gives  beyond  this,  in  the  way  of 
feeling  and  emotionality,  is  a  free-will  offering 
— a  quality  imparted  that  is  not  always  and 
never  entirely  under  his  control.  For  this 
[16] 


The  Lay  Auditor 


splendid  gift  no  money  can  pay,  because  it  is 
not  so  much  a  part  of  his  technical  or  even 
interpretative  skill  as  of  his  own  spiritual  self. 
It  can — and  must  ever — be  called  forth  by 
the  encouragement  and  eager  sympathy  of 
the  audience,  but  it  cannot  be  paid  for  with 
money.  Not,  at  least,  in  advance.  It  must 
always  be  regarded  as  an  addition  to  the 
sense  of  the  pieces,  not  as  a  substitute  for  it. 
The  pianist's  "feeling"  must  never  interfere 
with  the  clarity  of  his  phrasing. 

Now,  whether  a  pianist  does  or  does  not 
bring  out  the  musical  sense  of  a  piece;  whether 
he  presents  its  motives,  themes,  episodes, 
figurations — their  canonic,  fugal  or  otherwise 
contrapuntal  treatment,  their  physiognomical 
traits,  their  recurrences,  variations,  etc.,  and 
the  formal  cast  of  the  whole  piece — lucidly  or 
in  undiscernable  confusion  (or  in  some  manner 
halfway  between,  that  can  be  followed  only  by 
the  half-dozen  experts  in  the  house,  and  not  with 
any  pleasure  by  them),  no  one  is  as  competent 
to  decide  as  our  friend,  the  lay  auditor.  And 
in  many  a  layman's  case,  where  musico- 
technical  ignorance  is  coupled  with  a  delicate 
and  wide  grasp  upon  life  through  other  sets 
of  pyschic  antennae,  the  reaction  of  good 
music  is  spiritually  far  stronger  than  it  can 
be  upon  the  festive  dilettante  to  whom  music 
has  nothing  to  tell,  save  of  the  performer's 
[17] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

technic,  or  nothing  to  convey  save,  possibly, 
an  occasional  "pretty  effect." 

There  are,  of  course,  in  some  works  of  art, 
heights  and  depths  that  require  for  their  full 
appreciapon  more  than  a  merely  unbiassed 
mind.  \Long  acquaintance  with  the  language 
peculiar  to  great  art,  a  -general  esthesis  for 
psychic  processes  and  a  goodly  degree  of  that 
indefinable  quality  called  culture,  \are  undoubt- 
edly requisite  for  a  full  and  quick  under- 
standing of  its  creations.  To  an  auditor  thus 
equipped,  a  Beethoven  Sonata  will  always  say 
infinitely  more  than  to  our  friend  of  merely 
unbiassed  mind.  But  that  is  not  the  point. 
While  the  lay  auditor  may  not  perceive  the 
whole  import  of  the  work,  he  must  still  receive 
something  that  is  mentally  tangible;  he  will 
then  absorb  enough  to  satisfy  his  measure  of 
perceptive  development.  After  he  receives 
that — and  only  after  it — he  may  rise  to  the 
suspicion  that  there  may  be  more  in  the 
work  than  he  extracted.  He  is  then  fairly 
certain  to  hear  the  same  work  again  as  soon 
as  he  finds  an  opportunity.  And  this  stage 
reached,  we  need  not  worry  any  longer;  he 
may  be  considered  as  being  "safely  in  the  fold." 

A  man  does  not  need  to  paint  to  become 

a  judge  of  pictures,   but  he  must  see  many 

good    pictures    before    his    eye    is    trained    to 

comparative  criticism.     Just  so,  he  does  not 

[18] 


The  Lay  Auditor 


need  to  play  the  piano  or  to  study  composition 
in  order  to  become  an  appreciator  of  good 
music;  but  he  must  hear  much  good  music 
and  hear  it  well  played,  very  well  played, 
before  he  can  efficiently  weigh  and  measure 
its  merits. 

"Art  for  Art's  sake"  is  esthetic  trumpery. 

"Art  for  sensible,  normal  people's  sake"  is  a 
far  safer  motto. 


H*)] 


The  Three  Phases  of  Understanding. 

What  Is  it  that  the  auditor  has  to  "under- 
stand" in  a  piece  of  music?  One,  to  whom 
experience  has  never  shown  its  sterner  reali- 
ties; who  has  never  felt  the  tragedies  of  life 
enacted  in  his  own  heart;  who  has  never  suffered 
but 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss  or  pain, 
That  has  been  and  may  be  again — 

need  not  expect  to  understand  the  innermost 
meaning  of  any  great  work  of  Art,  however 
clearly  it  may  be  interpreted.  But  Art  is 
not  exclusively  esoteric;  it  does  not  confine  its 
addresses  to  the  initiated  few;  it  has  its 
exoteric  side  as  well.  For  Art  comprises  three 
phases  In  which  it  appeals  to  us.  It  speaks 
to  the  senses,  to  the  mind  and  to  the  soul. 
The  highest  (esoteric)  phase  may  remain  In- 
comprehensible to  many  of  us,  but  the  two 
lower  phases  are  well  within  the  reach  of  all 
and — note  It  well — these  two  lower  phases  are 
the  stepping-stones  to  the  summit. 

(a)       MATERIAL. 

First,  there  is  the  beauty  of  art-material. 
Color  per  se,  Independent  of  any  design, 
makes   an   appeal   to  our  esthetic  perception. 

[20] 


The  Three  Phases  of  Understanding 

A  plain  wall-paper  of  a  nice  hue,  a  piece  of 
cloth  of  varied  colors,  the  blue  sky,  the  green 
lawn — they  flatter  our  eye  through  color  alone 
as  our  ear  is  flattered  by  a  beautiful  tone, 
though  a  single  tone  is  no  more  music  than  a 
single  brick  is  architecture.  Material  beauty 
— tonal  beauty  in  music — is  the  pathfinder, 
the  scout  sent  by  the  artist  into  the  mind  of 
the  beholder  or  the  auditor.  Though  the 
auditor  be  sensitive  to  no  more  than  this  purely 
physical,  material  beauty,  and  though  he 
may  not  become  very  deeply  interested,  he 
will  at  least  realize  pleasant  sensations  of  a 
naive,  primitive  sort. 

Though  the  material  phase  is  here  called 
the  lowest,  the  expression  must  not  be  con- 
strued as  meaning  that  it  is  the  least  important. 
All  three  phases  rank  alike  in  significance,  for 
each  is  as  indispensable  to  the  others  as  clean- 
liness is  to  godliness.  Many  an  artist  who 
really  has  had  little  or  nothing  to  reveal  to 
the  world  has  nevertheless  enjoyed  transient 
fame  and  achieved  ephemeral  success  through 
his  close  attention  to  the  material  beauty  of 
his  work.  And  many  others,  who  may  have 
felt  deeply  and  thought  profoundly,  have  failed 
because  they  neglected  the  material  beauty  of 
their  work.  Henselt,  for  instance,  was  not  a 
musician  of  any  great  depth;  neither  was 
Thalberg;  yet  both  achieved  world-renown 
[21] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

through  the  beauty  of  their  touch.  It  was 
clearly  not  what  they  said,  but  how  they  said 
it,  that  made  them  famous — for  a  while  at 
least.  And  Rubinstein!  Much  as  the  strong 
personality  of  his  playing  was  admired — his 
noble,  though  utterly  subjective  imagination, 
his  gigantic  memory,  and  all  that — no  one 
acquainted  with  his  playing  ever  failed  to 
comment  rapturously  upon  the  wonderful 
beauty  of  his  tone.  Many  an  auditor  quite 
unable  to  follow  the  soarings  of  Rubinstein's 
fancy,  was  none  the  less  grateful  for  this 
extraordinary  and  unparalleled  aural  treat. 

Therefore:  respect  for  the  beauty  of  tone 
per  se  I 

(b)       DESIGN. 

Secondly,  there  is  In  music  the  beauty  of 
design.  One  of  the  properties  of  all  design  is 
recurrence.  Too  little  of  it  produces  restless- 
ness, too  much  of  it  produces  monotony.  The 
right  balance  both  denotes  and  produces  repose. 
This  is  a  fundamental  principle  of  Art  in  gen- 
eral and  of  Music  in  particular. 

After  a  subject  has  been  plainly  stated,  its 
recurrences  gratify  the  memory  of  the  hearer. 
These  recurrences  may  be  complete;  or  they 
may  be  partial,  fragmentary,  and  lead  to  new 
combinations  and  developments.  In  either 
case  the  traits  of  rhythm,  grouping  and 
[22] 


The  Three  Phases  of  Understanding 

dynamics — in  short,  those  features  that  con- 
stitute the  musical  physiognomy  of  the  subject 
— must  be  reproduced  so  plainly,  so  distinctly, 
as  to  be  easily  recognizable  at  every  recurrence. 
The  pleasure  that  the  auditor  derives  from 
following  the  lines  of  thematic  design  is  very 
great.  Though  it  may  fail  to  reach  his  emo- 
tional nature,  it  is  still  certain  to  engage  and 
satisfy  his  mind.  This  is  a  good  deal.  For 
the  understanding  of  thematic  design  forms 
usually  the  first  incentive  for  a  repeated 
hearing  of  the  same  work,  and  through  such 
repeated  hearings  the  emotional  content  of  a 
composition  is  very  apt  to  reveal  itself  even 
to  one  lacking  in  musical  knowledge. 

Under  the  above  caption  it  will  be  necessary 
to  call  the  attention  of  the  piano-student  to 
many  things  which  the  singer  and  the  player 
of  orchestra-parts  find  in  the  very  nature  of 
their  instruments,  but  which  the  pianist  has 
painstakingly  to  acquire.  The  vocalist  or 
violinist  when  pronouncing  a  melody  cannot 
produce  more  than  one  tone  at  a  time;  the 
pianist  must  not;  but,  unfortunately,  he  can 
and  all  too  often  does.  To  the  pianist,  there- 
fore, this  phase  of  design  must  include  that 
clarity  of  execution  which  absolutely  precludes 
any  doubt  in  the  hearer's  mind  as  to  whether 
a  melodic  tone  has  progressed  (to  another  one) 
or  whether  it  is  continued  and  some  other  newly 
[23  1 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

entering  tone  forms  an  accompaniment  to  it 
— or,  as  musicians  say,  belongs  to  another  part. 
There  must  be  no  ambiguity  in  melody! 

should  never  sound   like 

Nor  should  there  ever  be  more  than  one 
harmony  heard  at  a  time;  of  which  that 
arch-sinner,  the  right  foot,  must  take  care. 
With  hand  and  foot  the  performer  must  acquire 
with  the  piano  that  clarity  which  is  natural 
to  most  other  instruments  and  without  which 
the  greatest  digital  dexterity  is  utterly  worth- 
less. It  may  be  said  here  that  more  than  half 
of  the  mystery  of  touch,  over  which  gushing 
writers  and  talkers  of  pianistic  melliflux  marvel, 
lies  in  this  melodic  and  harmonic  purity  which 
is  fundamentally  necessary  to  musical  design 
produced  on  a  piano. 

(c)       THOUGHT    AND    FEELING. 

With  the  third  and  highest  function  of 
music — the  thought  and  feeling  behind  the 
design — this  volume  cannot  deal,  for  such 
study  belongs  properly  to  the  province  of 
abstract  art-criticism,  from  which  the  benefits 
to  be  derived  are  rather  uncertain.  That 
breadth  of  sympathy,  keenness  of  insight  and 
depth  of  feeling  which  makes  use  of  art  as  a 
medium  of  utterance  and  employs  musical 
[24] 


The  Three  Phases  of  Understanding 

material  and  design  as  tools  to  its  end — as 
the  painter  uses  pigments,  as  the  poet  uses 
meters — yields  but  with  reluctance  to  doctrin- 
aire speculation.  It  will  always  reveal  itself 
best  through  itself.  And  it  reveals  itself 
readily  enough  to  every  one  who  by  frequent 
contact  with  good  music  has  become  conversant 
with  musical  parlance,  or,  in  other  words, 
has  learned  to  listen.  In  order,  however,  to 
prepare  the  way  for  an  appreciation  of  the 
supreme  office  of  music,  the  two  phases  of 
material  and  design  must  be  plainly  under- 
stood. 

The  element  of  material  beauty  is  somewhat 
aside  from  the  present  discussion.  It  belongs 
to  the  province  of  mechanical  technique.  It 
is  with  Design,  and  its  lucid  demonstration  on 
the  Piano,  that  this  volume  deals.  Before 
entering  upon  its  details,  however,  it  may 
not  be  amiss  to  give  thought  to  one  of  the 
favorite  platitudes  of  the  prosaic  bourgeoisie. 
They  say  that  any  work  of  art  which  they 
cannot  at  once  understand  fails  of  its  purpose, 
and  they  strengthen  their  position  by  the 
slogan:  "Art  is  for  the  people."  This  is  quite 
true,  but  not  more  so  than  that  everything 
else  is  for  the  people:  Nature,  religion,  good 
manners,  food — everything.  But  how  much 
of  it  does  the  bourgeois  appreciate?  He  has 
been  taught  to  read,  whether  with  or  without 
[25  1 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

his  own  desire,  but  what  does  he  read?  He 
sees  Nature  in  every  mood,  but  does  his 
appreciation  ever  rise  beyond  good  or  bad 
weather?  Is  it  not  the  poet  and  painter  who 
have  to  open  the  bourgeois  eye  to  the  beauties 
of  the  objective  world?  What  other  mission 
has  Art  than  to  open  up  to  the  average  man 
that  which  he  could  not  see  and  hear  and  feel 
without  its  aid?  What  other  purpose  than  to 
develop  and  enrich  his  inner  life?  But  the 
good  bourgeois  is  accustomed  to  be  respected 
according  to  his  material  possessions.  Art  is 
too  hopelessly  democratic  for  him.  It  scorns 
every  worldly  attribute  and  claims  the  man 
himself.  It  insists  upon  the  inner  man.  If  the 
inner  man  proves  to  be  empty,  or  the  talents 
of  the  bourgeois  are  misdirected,  is  Art  to 
blame?  The  bourgeois  who  feels  powerless  to 
attack  Art  sometimes  assails  the  artist.  But 
to  the  artist  the  platitudes  of  philistinism  are 
not  awe-inpsiring.  For  he  knows  that  sparrows 
will  never  understand  why  eagles  soar  beyond 
the  height  of  a  cherry-tree. 


[26: 


Rules  Are  Not  Laws. 

To  teach  or  learn  the  perception  and  re- 
production of  musical  design  in  the  manner 
in  which  the  technique  of  the  piano  is  taught 
and  acquired,  is  impossible.  The  rules  given 
here  cannot  make  anybody  phrase  well.  This 
must  ever  depend  upon  the  individual  power  of 
the  student  to  think  and  upon  the  refinement 
of  his  sensibilities — upon  the  amount  of  work 
he  does,  the  devotion  with  which  it  is  pursued. 
For  there  is  in  Art  not  one  rule  or  doctrine  that 
admits  of  dogmatic  rigidity  and  fixedness.  If 
there  were  such  a  principle  that  did  not  require 
to  be  elastically  applied,  that  was  mathematic- 
ally settled  once  for  all,  Art  would  cease  to  be 
what  it  is,  namely,  an  individual  expression 
of  life.  Hence,  the  student  is  warned  not  to 
mistake  rules  for  laws.  What  observation  has 
established  as  a  frequently  or  even  usually 
applicable  rule,  has  been  set  forth  here  only 
as  a  hint  or  suggestion  to  the  thoughtful 
player,  who  should  never  lose  sight  of  what  is 
due  from  the  interpreter  both  to  the  composer 
and  to  the  auditor.  The  purpose  of  this  book 
may  be  summarized  in  the  claim  that  it  aims 
to  suggest  ways  and  means  to  conceive  a 
[27  1 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

musical  thought  intelligently  and  to  convey 
it  with  lucidity  through  skillful 

PHRASING. 

Phrasing  is  that  rational  division  and  sub- 
division of  musical  sentences  which  serve  to 
make  them  intelligible  to  the  auditor.  Its 
place  in  music — to  say  the  least — corresponds 
to  punctuation  in  elecution,  though  its  im- 
portance is  perhaps  as  much  greater  in  propor- 
tion, as  musical  tones  are  less  definite  in 
meaning  than  words. 

In  order  to  illustrate  the  close  kinship 
between  literary  punctuation  and  musical 
phrasing  it  will  be  necessary  to  anticipate  for 
a  moment  the  subjects  of  the  next  chapters: 
Accent  and  Pause.  Asking  the  reader  to 
assume  for  the  time  being  that  accent  and 
pause  are  the  chiefest  means  of  phrasing,  we 
will  use  for  our  illustration  the  following  well- 
known  puzzle  sentence: 

/  have  ten  fingers  on  each  hand^  five  and 
twenty  on  hands  and  feet. 

The  comma  divides  the  sentence  into  two 
parts  and  each  part  contains  an  untrue 
statement.  Both  statements,  however,  are 
simultaneously  corrected  if  we  but  shift  the 
comma  three  words  back,  for  then  we  read: 

/  have  ten  fingers^  on   each   hand  five^  and 
twenty  on  hands  and  feet. 
[28] 


Rules  Are  Not  Laws 


If  we  add  a  simple  melody  to  these  words 
we  obtain  for  the  first  (wrong)  version: 


1   hiTataa    rin-gers     oa  each   haod,         fire  tad    twen^tj    on    huids  aiiil    feet 

which,  though  expressed  in  the  same  tones, 
may  be  changed  in  the  second  (correct)  version 
into  this: 


I   have  ten    fla-^rs,  oa    ejurfa  hand    five,       and  tweo-ty   on   hands  and    fe^^Z— 

The  slurs  invite  our  attention  first.  There 
were  only  two  slurs  in  the  first  version;  in 
the  second  we  see  three.  The  slurs,  therefore, 
not  only  indicate  that  the  syllables  under  each 
one  should  be  sung  connectedly  {legato),  but 
they  also  determine  the  extent  of  each  part  of 
the  sentence.     They  indicate  the  breathing. 

There  are  two  other  points  to  be  noticed. 
First,  that  pausing  was  the  only  means  by 
which  the  difference  of  significance  between 
the  two  versions  was  produced.  Secondly, 
that  the  placing  of  the  pauses  completely 
changed  the  character  of  the  word  "and." 
From  a  mere  means  of  compounding  two 
numerals — in  that  inverted  order  customary 
in  England  (and  Germany),  where  "twenty- 
five"  is  called  "five-and- twenty" — the  word 
"and"  has  been  transformed  into  a  full-fledged 
[29] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

conjunction  uniting  two  entirely  separate  state- 
ments. Moreover,  the  pauses  have  also  chang- 
ed the  word  "five,"  which  was  part  of  a 
compound  numeral,  to  the  basic  numeral 
"five." 

To  show,  however,  that  it  was  not  absolutely 
necessary  to  state  in  print  the  various  pauses 
of  the  second  version,  we  may  now  repeat 
it  without  them  and  we  shall  find  that  the 
slurs  alone  should  have  sufficed  (for  the 
trained  musician),  for  they  should  have  induced 
the  pauses: 


I  have  ten     fin-g^ers,  on    eadi  hand  five,  and  twen-ty    on    hands  and      feet 

Under  proper  phrasing  the  "art-pauses"* 
should  have  tallied  perfectly  with  the  stated 
pauses  of  the  preceding  version. 

As  we  view  the  change  and  muse  over  the 
possibilities  of  "pausing,"  the  old  proverb 
that  says  "silence  is  golden"  assumes  an 
additional  and  new  significance. 

THE    MEANS    OF    PHRASING. 

Of  implements  or  tools  serviceablein  phrasing 
there  are  but  two,  accent  and  pause.  Each 
of  these  admits  of  a  great  variety  of  degrees; 
the  accent  varies  in  force,  the  pause  in  length. 

*See  page  31,  end  of  first  paragraph. 
[30] 


Rules  Are  Not  Laws 


However,  the  accent  or  pause  that  may  be 
found  in  print  is  not  the  one  I  mean.  Far 
from  it;  for  we  shall  find  in  later  chapters 
that  the  sign  of  an  accent  is  anything  but 
definite  in  its  meaning.  I  refer  here  to  that 
accent  which  is  inherent  in  the  rhythm  of  a 
phrase  and  which,  being  tacitly  understood, 
does  not  need  to  be  (and  is  not)  especially 
stated  in  print.  It  is  the  natural  or  rhythmic 
accent.  And  by  pauses  I  do  not  mean  the 
printed  ones,  but  those  minute  interruptions  in 
the  general  flow  of  melody  which,  for  instance, 
the  singer  makes  in  breathing.  As  the  singer 
may  not  sing  on  until  his  breath  gives  out  and 
then  pause  to  refill  his  lungs,  but  must  practice 
that  wise  economy  by  which  he  is  enabled  to 
accommodate  his  breathing-periods  to  the  punc- 
tuation in  his  texts  and  then  pause  to  breathe 
whether  the  composer  did  or  did  not  prescribe  a 
pause;  so  must  the  pianist  search  for  those 
points  in  his  melody  where  the  punctuation 
should  be  placed  if  a  text  were  written  under  it, 
or,  in  other  words,  if  his  piece  were  a  song. 
To  distinguish  it  from  the  printed  pause,  we 
will  call  this  the  Art-pause. 

In  the  hands  of  an  artist  the  Art-pause  is 
a  wonderful  tool.  It  can  create  a  feeling  of 
suspense.  It  can  serve  to  distinguish  a  partial 
from  a  final  conclusion.  It  can  produce  the 
thrill  of  tragedy  and  it  can  bring  out  the 
[31] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

point  of  humor.  It  can  indicate  feebleness 
and  denote  force.  It  is  Protean  in  its  moods 
and  it  is  one  of  the  two  implements  of  musical 
phrasing.  Mrs.  Browning,  said  to  have  been 
a  connoisseur  of  music,  must  have  had  this 
Art-pause  in  her  mind  when  she  wrote:* 

The  growing  drama 

....   may  outgrow  the  painted  scene, 
Boards,  actors, prompters, gaslightandcostume. 
And  take  for  a  worthier  stage  the  soul  itself, 
Its  shifting  fancies  and  celestial  lights. 
With  all  its  grand  orchestral  silences 
To  keep  the  pauses  of  its  rhythmic  sounds, 

*"Aurora  Leigh,"  Book  V. 


[32] 


Old  Errors. 

(with  a  brief  excursion  into  history) 

From  the  foregoing  we  have  seen  that  the 
purpose  of  phrasing  is  to  make  the  musical 
meaning  of  a  piano-piece  clear  to  the  auditor; 
in  other  words,  to  furnish  him  with  the  means 
of  understanding  it. 

We  have  also  seen  that  the  process  of  gaining 
the  understanding  of  the  auditor  must  be 
started  through  the  element  of  rhythm.  For, 
however  far  his  appreciation  may  subsequently 
outreach  mere  rhythm,  it  must  reach  the 
rhythm  of  a  piece  before  it  can  outreach  it. 

It  is  consequently  true  that  any  rule  liable 
to  interfere  with  rhythmical  clarity  must  be 
wrong — must,  once  for  all,  be  declared  null  and 
void,  no  matter  how  ancient  it  may  be  and 
no  matter  how  impressive  it  may  look  apparel- 
led in  its  traditional  dignities.  If  it  clashes 
with  clarity  of  rhythm  it  must  be  renounced. 

Now  of  such  rules — old,  widely  known,  only 
too  often  followed,  still  preached  by  unpro- 
gressive   instructors,   and   yet  utterly  false — 
there  are  two  that  quite  directly  concern  the* 
matter  of  phrasing. 

One  of  these  false  rules  says: 

The  note  that  bears  an  accentuation-sign 

(  > )  must  be  the  loudest  of  its  group. 
[33] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

This  is  worse  than  a  fallacy.  It  is  a  half- 
truth.  It  is  true  only  in  cases  where  the 
accentuation-sign  is  placed  upon  a  note  which 
stands  at  a  naturally  accented  point  of  the 
measure.  When  this  is  not  the  case;  when  the 
sign  is  set  over  a  note  that  stands  on  an 
unaccented  part  of  the  measure,  the  sign 
indicates  only  that  the  note  under  it  ought  to 
be  less  negatively  treated  than  it  would  be 
without  the  sign.  It  does  not  make  it  "the 
loudest  of  its  group"  by  any  means,  for,  if 
it  did  so,  the  auditor  would  be  at  once  misled 
into  accepting  it  as  a  rhythmical  (natural) 
accent. 

To  understand  this  matter  better,  we  must 
divide  all  accents  into  two  classes — regular 
(rhythmic  or  natural)  and  irregular  (occasional 
or  dramatic)  accents.  It  is  a  musical  axiom, 
that  the  composer  always  places  the  note  of 
greatest  melodic  importance  upon  the  first 
beat  of  the  measure.  Hence,  the  much-used 
term  "primary  accent."  Let  us  compare  this 
"note  of  greatest  importance"  with  the  noun 
in  language,  and  see  what  we  can  discover 
through  such  comparison.  In  starting  a 
serious  talk,  in  settling  or  stating  its  subject, 
we  are  compelled  to  emphasize  the  noun. 
Later,  when  the  choice  of  subject  is  under- 
stood and  we  are  dealing  with  its  qualities, 
etc.,  we  may  emphasize  the  adjective,  but  we 

[34] 


Old  Errors 

may  do  so  only  because  the  cognizance  of  the 
subject  is  presupposed.  For  instance,  if  I 
describe  a  landscape  to  one  who  never  saw  it, 
and  enumerate  the  features  of  the  scenery,  I 
am  bound  to  say  "a  high  mountain^''  or  "a 
beautiful  lake^^;  but  if  I  address  one  who  is 
familiar  with  the  place  and  I  talk  in  a  reminis- 
cent manner,  I  may  say  "that  high  mountain'* 
or  "that  beautiful  lake."  Cognizance  of,  or 
familiarity  with,  the  subject  is  presupposed, 
and  it  is  only  this  presupposition  which  justi- 
fies transference  of  emphasis. 

Now,  this  "presupposed  familiarity"  with 
the  subject  is  a  not  unimportant  element  in 
music,  and  has  been  recognized  or  felt  by  all 
its  great  masters,  who  have  frequently  changed 
the  accents  in  their  subjects  by  shifting  them 
into  a  different  part  of  the  measure;  so  that 
the  note  that  bore  the  accent  in  the  first 
statement  was  unaccented  in  a  later  reiteration, 
the  accent  now  falling  upon  a  note  unaccented 
before.  But  in  all  such  cases  the  note  that 
was  first  accented  did  afterwards  stand  in  a 
different  part  of  the  measure^  and  by  this  very 
token  informed  the  reader  of  the  intention 
of  the  composer  to  change  the  emphasis.  Had 
the  author,  to  induce  a  change  of  emphasis, 
resorted  to  a  mere  accentuation-sign,  instead 
of  shifting  the  subject  rhythmically,  the  player 
would  have  been  perfectly  justified  in  regarding 
[35] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

this  accentuation-sign  as  a  slip  of  the  pen  or  a 
misprint.  If,  for  instance,  a  composer  wished 
to  say  first: 


and  should  later  conclude  to  place  the  accent 
upon  the  note  that  stands  on  the  second  beat, 
he  would  have  to  reconstruct  the  motive  in 
such  a  manner  that  the  second  beat  should 
become  the  first.    He  would  have  to  write: 


The  rhythmical  traits  inherent  in  either  of  the 
two  forms  of  this  motive — and  which  they 
possess  without  any  auxiliary  marking  what- 
ever— cannot  be  essentially  changed  through 
any  accentuation-signs  the  composer  may 
choose  to  add,  no  matter  on  which  note  he 
may  place  them. 

This  does  not  mean  that  all  occasional 
accent-marks  should  be  completely  ignored 
(though  such  a  procedure  will  be  recommended 
later  in  more  cases  than  the  reader  might  at 
present  suspect);  but  it  does  mean  that  all 
occasional  accent-marks  should  be  accepted 
with  the  utmost  caution,  cum  grano  salis,  as 
it  were,  and  that  they  should  never  induce 
[36] 


Old  Errors 

the  player  to  obscure  the  rhythmical  integrity 
of  a  phrase. 

It  does  occur  here  and  there  that  the  com- 
poser purposely  disarranges  the  rhythmical 
regularity  of  his  piece  to  produce  a  dramatic 
effect,  but  this  is  exceptional  and,  what  is 
more,  it  cannot  be  done  before  the  idea  of 
regularity  has  been  well  established  in  the 
mind  of  the  auditor.  For  we  cannot  recognize 
the  irregular  as  such,  before  we  know  the 
regular.  This  points  again  to  the  "presupposed 
cognizance"  already  mentioned. 

We  turn  now  to  the  second  of  the  two  false 
rules,  that  says: 

Of  two  notes  connected  by  a  slur,  the 
first  note  must  be  emphasized  and  the 
second  must  be  played  staccato. 

Two  errors  in  one  sentence!  To  see  that  they 
are  errors  we  need  only  remember  that  the 
violin  is  about  three  times  as  old  as  the  piano, 
and  that  many  of  the  annotations  we  find  in 
piano-music  are  derived  from  violin-composi- 
tions.     A  phrase  of  this  kind 

is  slurred  for  the  violin,  not  for  the  piano. 
On  the  violin  the  first  two  notes  are  played 
with  an  upward  moving  bow,  the  last  note 
with  a  downward  stroke.  The  interruption 
in   changing   the    bowing    is    too  minute   for 

r37] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

any  human  ear  to  perceive  it.  The  bow  is 
changed  for  the  purpose  of  giving  the  weight 
of  a  full,  new  bow  to  the  note  on  the  primary 
beat.  Such  a  change  not  being  required  on 
the  piano,  the  end  of  the  slur  would  indicate 
that  arm  and  hand  are  to  be  lifted  off  the 
keys,  and  as  this  lifting  would  destroy  the 
unity  of  the  little  phrase  the  slur  must,  in 
piano-music,  comprise  three  notes,  that  is,  it 
must  include  the  concluding  note.  The  pianist, 
knowingly  or  by  instinct,  would  not  make  a 
break  between  the  B  and  C  of  the  above 
example,  lest  he  produce  something  like  the 
musical  illustration  of  a  hiccough.  On  the 
violin,  however,  the  slurring,  as  stated  above, 
is  perfectly  legitimate,  for  on  the  violin  a 
slur  connecting  two  different  notes  indicates 
that  they  are  to  be  played  with  one  motion 
of  the  bow,  upwards  or  downwards,  and  that 
they  should  not  be  played  with  a  separate 
motion  for  each  note.  This  corresponds  per- 
fectly with  certain  elements  of  language  which 
may  be  employed  in  the  form  of  monosyllables 
or  in  combination.  The  slur  only  indicates 
the  combination.  Take,  for  illustration,  the 
words  "to"  and  "in."  We  may  use  them  in 
succession,  and  yet  separately,  as  in  saying: 

"He  came  in  to  say  farewell." 

In  pronouncing  this  little  sentence  we  shall 
observe  a  minute  break  between  "in"  and 
[38] 


Old  Errors 

"to" — a  break  that  will  not  occur  when  we 
compound  the  two  words,  as  In  saying: 

"He  came  into  a  fortune." 

Now,  there  are  of  such  bisyllabic  words  two 
kinds  in  all  languages.  Some  of  them  put 
the  emphasis  on  the  ultimate,  some  on  the 
penultimate  syllable.  In  English,  the  words 
"before"  and  "after"  will  be  fitting  examples. 

It  hardly  requires  special  assertion  that 
musical  rhythms  must  supply  equivalents  for 
these  linguistic  variations;  if  those  two  words 
occured  in  a  poem  to  which  we  wished  to  give 
a  musical  setting,  we  should  be  compelled  to 
find  rhythms  that  in  the  matter  of  emphasis 
exactly  tallied  with  them.     For  example: 


Now,  if  we  had  to  accentuate  the  first  note 
of  the  first  slur,  would  it  not  sound  unnatural.^ 
This  little  example,  however,  illustrates  at 
the  same  time  the  falsity  of  the  second  item  of 
the  old  rule:  "And  the  second  note  must  be 
played  staccato."  How  can  we  play  a  half- 
note  staccato  .'*  If  the  second  note  under  the 
slur  is  a  prolonged  one,  a  note  which  the 
composer  meant  to  be  dwelt  upon,  how  can 
we  reconcile  its  long  duration  with  a  staccato 
touch.''  We  cannot  do  it.  We  may  do  some- 
thing to  intimate  that  the  slur  ends  at  this 
[39] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

note.  We  may  slightly,  though  very  slightly, 
curtail  the  note  and  make  up  for  it  by  a  little 
pause: 


Be-  fore       and    tf-ter 

Of  course,  if  the  note  thus  to  be  curtailed  is 
but  of  brief  duration  by  its  denomination, 
this  curtailment  will,  no  doubt,  make  it  in 
effect  a  staccato;  but  the  staccato  in  such  an 
event  will  be  a  logical  result  of  circumstance 
and  not  a  deliberate  purpose  dictated  by  a 
fossilized  rule. 

That  a  rule  so  palpably  false  should  be 
formulated  and  widely  believed  is  not  alto- 
gether inexplicable.  But  the  explanation  will 
require  a  brief  excursion  into 

HISTORY. 

We  must  remember  that  Music,  as  we 
understand  it,  is  practically  not  more  than 
about  three  centuries  old.  In  this  short  time 
it  has  passed  through  all  those  stages  of 
development  for  which  architecture,  painting, 
sculpture  and  poetry  had  a  period  more  than 
ten  times  as  long.  It  stands  to  reason  that 
its  first  development  lay  solely  on  the  creative 
side.  Music  had  to  be  composed  before  music 
could  be  interpreted,  and  executive  skill, 
[40  1 


Old  Errors 

especially  on  the  piano  and  its  precursors, 
was  at  first  linked  with  that  of  creation. 
Very  gradual  was  the  differentiation  of  the 
performer  from  the  composer;  and  even  long 
after  the  divorce  had  taken  place,  the  skill 
of  the  executant  was  the  prized  privilege  of 
the  favored  few.  It  remained  so  until  music 
had,  so  to  speak,  established  itself  as  an 
independent  art  not  auxiliary  to  literature, 
religious  service,  or  dancing.  From  Palestrina 
to  Beethoven  is  a  far  greater  distance  (as 
far  as  ideas,  their  treatment,  and  the  matter 
of  style,  are  concerned)  than  from  Homer  to 
Goethe;  yet  Music  travelled  this  long  way 
past  the  archaic,  across  the  antique,  renaissance 
and  rococo,  to  the  modern  (which  may  be 
said  to  begin  with  Beethoven)  in  256  years. 
This  explains  the  wonderful  circumstance  that 
such  giants  as  appeared  in  other  arts  once  in 
a  century  have  in  music  followed  each  other 
without  interruption.  In  fact,  their  careers 
have  overlapped  each  other. 

Little  wonder  that  musicians  have  not 
bothered  about  spreading  the  art  while  there 
was  so  much  to  do  creatively  to  develop  it. 

When  music  became — in  a  certain  sense 
— complete;  when  it  had  said  enough  great 
things  to  entitle  it  to  recognition  per  se, 
musicians  naturally  turned  their  attention  to 
the  popularization  of  their  Art.  There  was 
[41] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

now  need  of  missionaries  who  would  open 
up  to  the  people  in  general  the  treasure- 
trove  of  beauty  accumulated  during  two  cen- 
turies; missionaries  who  would  instruct  the 
people  to  read,  play  or  sing  for  themselves 
what  has  hitherto  been  read,  played  and  sung 
to  them  by  interpreters. 

Thus  came  into  being  the  musical  pedagogue, 
who  made  it  his  business  to  study  the  principles 
underlying  those  beautiful  tonal  effects  which 
the  great  interpreters  produced  intuitively, 
unconsciously — produced  them  simply  by  grati- 
fying an  inner  impulse  stirred  by  an  education 
not  so  much  pianistic  as  generally  musical. 

We  must  observe  here  that,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  specialists  on  rudimentary  or 
foundational  instruction,  all  great  music-teach- 
ers have  been  either  creative  or  executive 
artists  first  and  have  turned  to  teaching  at 
an  age  when  experience  had  matured  their 
views  of  art  and  when  the  impulse  made 
itself  felt  to  propagate  their  views,  ideas, 
methods  and  principles.  Unfortunately,  every 
current  has  its  countercurrent,  which,  in  this 
case,  was  represented  by  those  who  began  to 
teach  as  soon  as  their  stock  of  merely  mem- 
orized information  enabled  them  to  begin, 
and  who  did  not  test  their — often  rather 
flimsy — knowledge  by  artistic  experience.  The 
teachers  of  this  type  have  formulated  a  large 

[42] 


Old  Errors 

number  of  rules,  regulations  and  wordy  sys- 
tems; 

For  just  where  fails  the  comprehension, 
A.  word  steps  promptly  in  as  deputy. 
With  words  'tis  excellent  disputing; 
Systems  to  words  'tis  easy  suiting. 

Many  of  these  rules  died  before  their 
formulators,  but  some  few  of  them  have  re- 
mained 

Like  an  eternal  sickness  of  the  race — 
From  generation  unto  generation  fitted 
And  shifted  round  from  place  to  place. 

The  last  thirty-five  years  have,  however, 
brought  to  light  a  larger  array  of  proven 
principles  (not  rules)  in  teaching  music  (es- 
pecially in  piano-teaching)  than  all  preceding 
time  put  together.  Modern  music-teachers 
have  studied  philosophy,  esthetics,  anatomy, 
physiology  and  even  biology  in  their  search 
for  means  by  which  to  increase  results  while 
at  the  same  time  reducing  exertion.  While 
musical  pedagogy  might  well  be  said  to  be 
still  in  its  infancy,  it  can  nevertheless  show 
substantial  discoveries;  enough,  to  say  the 
least,  to  claim  the  confidence  of  those  who 
are  wont  to  accept  the  age  of  a  "method" 
as  a  voucher  for  its  worth. 

The  flexible  wrist,  the  limp  elbow,  the  loose 
shoulder;  positive,  negative  and  finger  staccato; 
[43] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

the  arm  in  its  manifold  agencies;  finger-stroke; 
pressure-touch;  after-pedalling;  the  entire  field 
of  technique;  and  a  multitude  of  other  matters 
of  a  more  or  less  physiological  nature  are  but 
very  recent  discoveries.  In  the  field  of  es- 
thetics, too,  as  far  as  it  relates  to  teaching, 
profound  researches  have  been  made.  We 
have  come  to  know  how  to  handle  the  tone 
of  the  piano  in  such  a  way  as  partly  to  over- 
come its  evanescence.  Artistic  illusions — 
as  legitimate  in  music  as  perspective  and 
foreshortening  are  in  painting — are  nowadays 
so  effectively  mastered  as  to  make  it  pos- 
sible for  the  piano  to  outdo  all  other  single 
instruments.  We  also  have  recalled  to  our 
minds  that  such  terms  as  Adagio,  Allegro, 
etc.,  are  not  designations  of  speed  but,  prima- 
rily, of  mood.  Then,  the  metronome  has  been 
''found  out"  as  an  artistic  impossibility,  and 
has  been  relegated  to  its  proper  station  as  a 
sort  of  orthophonic  adjunct  to  purely  mechani- 
cal exercises.  That  the  grouping-slur  in  piano- 
music  must  comprise  one  note  more  than  in 
music  for  string-instruments,  has  already  been 
mentioned.  This  list  of  finds  and  discoveries 
could  be  much  prolonged  here,  but  it  is  already 
sufficiently  imposing  to  show  that  in  the 
works  of  the  great  masters — and,  indeed, 
through  them — we  have  learned  to  read  between 
the  lines  with  a  degree  of  penetration  heretofore 
[44] 


Old  Errors 

out  of  the  question,  and  which  past  generations 
could  not  even  dimly  have  divined. 

A  new  term  has  recently  been  added  to 
piano  nomenclature;  it  is  "attack."  It  must 
be  explained  at  this  point  because  of  its 
bearing  upon  the  false  rules  to  which  I  have 
referred. 

We  know  that  the  use  of  the  arm  should 
be  reserved  for  occasions  of  strictest  necessity, 
and  that  we  should  play  as  much  as  possible 
with  the  fingers.  Since,  however,  we  cannot 
very  well  use  the  fingers  before  they  are  in 
due  proximity  to  the  keyboard,  and  since 
they  ought  not  to  be  in  this  position  until 
the  new  phrase  begins,  every  phrase  has  to 
start  with  a  motion  of  the  arm.  This  motion 
is  called  the  "attack."  Now,  whether  the 
attack  be  positive  (accented)  or  negative  (un- 
accented), it  has — even  if  very  soft — to  come 
from  the  arm,  and  as  the  composers  of  the  past 
(and  only  too  many  of  the  present)  have  not 
known  of  the  distinction  between  attack  and 
accent,  they  have  frequently  put  an  accent- 
mark  where  they  meant  to  indicate  only  the 
commencement  of  a  new  phrase  or  sub-phrase. 
They  evidently — and  perhaps  justly — feared 
that  a  mere  phrasing-slur  or  grouping-slur 
might  be  taken  for  a  legato-sign  and  nothing 
more.  They  have,  therefore,  added  an  accent- 
mark,  especially  when  the  start  of  the  new 
[45] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

phrase  (or  sub-phrase)  was  not  obvious  and 
self-evident.  Teachers  of  no  artistic  antece- 
dents have  noticed  these  accent-marks,  and, 
with  the  natural  tendency  of  the  inartistic 
temperament  to  tabulate  and  classify  every- 
thing, they  have  formulated  the  absurd  rule 
we  are  discussing. 

It  is  true,  not  only  of  music-teachers  but 
of  the  followers  of  every  profession,  that  they 
too  generally,  storing  up  a  certain  amount  of 
information,  give  their  knowledge  forth  again 
just  as  they  received  it,  without  ever  testing 
a  single  part  of  it  in  the  forum  of  their  own 
intelligence;  without  ever  searching  for  the 
reason  of  a  rule;  without  ever  vitalizing  a 
received  thought  by  any  mental  activity  of 
their  own.  They  merely  "remember,"  instead 
of  doing  their  own  thinking;  they  are  satisfied 
to  jurare  in  verba  magistri.  They  will  quote 
Schumann's  well-meant  mandate:  "Play  in 
time,"  without  even  suspecting  that  he  meant 
"play  in  rhythm,"  and  that  he  would  undoubt- 
edly have  said  so  if  in  his  day  the  distinction 
between  time  and  rhythm  had  been  as  clearly 
understood  as  it  is  to-day.  They  will  make  a 
retard  precisely  where  the  word  is  printed; 
without  furnishing  either  a  cause  for  it  or 
balancing  it  up  subsequently;  because  the 
ritardando  is  all  that  is  printed — as  if  we 
could  never  mention  the  hills  without  men- 
[46] 


Old  Errors 

tioning    also    that,    of    course,    they    have    a 
valley  between  them. 

In  closing  this  chapter  it  may  be  in  place 
to  make  a  quotation  that  will  conclusively 
prove  the  falsity  of  the  two  (or  really  three) 
rules  under  discussion.  It  is  the  first  motive 
in  the  Rondo  of  Beethoven's  Concerto  in  E 
flat.  We  shall  find  that  it  contradicts  every- 
thing that  these  obsolete  rules  teach. 


What  do  we  see.''  First,  a  sign  of  6/8  time, 
which  means  two  accents  per  measure,  one 
upon  the  first  eighth  and  a  slightly  lesser  one 
upon  the  fourth  eighth.  Did  Beethoven  wish 
to  ignore  these  natural  accents  in  the  very 
first  statement  of  his  principal  subject,  as  we 
do  if  we  must  accept  the  old  rule.^  Was  it  his 
intention  to  keep  the  auditor  in  ignorance  of 
the  very  rhythm,  and  to  make  him  mentally 
grope  for  it  through  two  whole  measures."* 
Surely  not.  For,  if  such  had  been  his  intention 
he  would  not  have  contradicted  it  through  the 
figure  in  the  left  hand — a  basic  figure  which 
leaves  no  doubt  as  to  its  rhythmical  purpose 
and  accents.  He  did  not  wish  the  chord  in 
[47] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

the  second  measure  (marked  sfz)  to  be  treated 
as  negatively  as  a  second  eighth  in  6/8  time 
might  be.  He  wished  it  to  receive  force 
enough  to  do  its  work.  He  even  wished  it 
to  be  given  prominence — wished  it  to  equal 
the  first  eighth  in  strength.  This  action, 
being  so  natural,  would  secure  the  necessary 
distinction.  But  he  certainly  did  not  wish 
It  to  be  "the  loudest  in  the  group,"  for  if  we 
render  it  thus  there  is  nothing  to  prevent 
the  hearer  from  understanding  it  as  if  it  were 
written 


and  the  eighth-rest  would  be  decidedly  de  trop! 
But  then,  he  did  put  that  rest  in  its  place;  he 
did  interrupt  the  continuity  of  the  rising 
E-flat  chord  that  forms  the  subject,  in  order 
to  have  the  B  flat — and  not  the  E  flat — fall 
due  upon  the  natural  accent  coincidently  with 
the  fundamental  bass  note.  What  folly  it 
would  be  to  disregard  what  he  so  plainly 
implied,  in  favor  of  the  purely  incidental 
mark  sfz! 

We  also  see  in  the  original  text  four  slurs, 
each  extending  over  two  notes.  The  first 
starts  positively  and  ends  negatively  (just  as 
the  old  rule  says),  but  the  second  reverses  the 
order.  The  other  two  slurs  are  put  over  mini- 
[48] 


Old  Errors 

mal  subdivisions,  of  which,  however,  the  note 
on  the  beat  is  naturally  of  greater  rhythmical 
value  than  the  note  between  beats.  Suppose, 
now,  that  we  emphasized  the  subject  according 
to  the  old  rule  and  obtained  this: 


Could  anybody  understand  it  as  being  in 
6/8  time?  Would  it  not  be  a  division  in  3/4? 
Many  other  illustrations  might  be  added  to 
this,  and  they  could  be  cited  from  all  types 
and  classes  of  composition;  but  this  example 
bears  sufficient  authority  to  convince  the 
student  who  has  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
taught  to  believe  in  the  aforementioned  old 
rules,  that  he  must  cut  loose  from  them.  He 
must  realize  that  if  he  does  not  do  so,  they 
will  be  constant  obstacles  to  rational  phrasing 
and  will  tend  to  confuse  his  mind  in  many 
other  matters  upon  which  they  bear  more 
indirectly. 


149] 


Accent. 

What  the  hills  are  to  the  valley;  what  the 
steeple  is  to  the  village  on  the  plain;  what 
the  arteries  are  to  the  veins;  what  objects  are 
to  space;  what  sounds  are  to  time;  what  the 
oasis  is  to  the  desert;  all  this  and  much  more 
is  the  accent  to  music.  Without  it  we  cannot 
carry  the  simplest  musical  thought  beyond  the 
merely  physical  ear  of  our  auditor.  Without 
it  every  distinction  between  the  living  musician 
and  the  mechanical  self-playing  machine  practi- 
cally vanishes.  To  say  that,  without  it,  the 
musical  painting  is  converted  into  a  chromo, 
would  be  unjust  to  the  chromo;  the  comparison 
would  be  lame  and  ineffective.  Without  accent 
music  becomes  a  succession  of  almost  meaning- 
less sounds  tolerable  only  for  their  conven- 
tionality, rather  than  becoming,  as  music  ever 
should,  an  appeal  made  by  one  living  soul  to 
another.  Devoid  of  accent,  music  ceases  to 
be  that  sweet  mystery  which  has  baffled  the 
interpretative  powers  of  the  poets  of  all  ages 
and  lands,  and  of  which  no  sage  or  man  of 
science  has  ever  been  able  to  give  more  than 
a  fragmentary  definition. 

Had  I  the  flaming  towers  of  Flammarion's 
visionary  project  of  communicating  with  Mars 
at  my  disposal,  I  would  flash  the  word  "accent" 
[50] 


Accent 

across  the  firmament  for  the  benefit  of  all 
musiciandom.  Life  has  no  pulse  without 
accent,  poetry  no  meter;  upon  accent  depends 
Rhythm,  and  Rhythm  is  the  handle  by  which 
the  auditor — musician  or  layman — grasps  and 
takes  hold  of  Music.  To  be  sure,  there  are 
higher  and  finer  qualities  in  good  music  than 
its  rhythm,  but  rhythm  stands  at  its  doors, 
an  obstinate,  uncompromising  guard;  before 
we  have  settled  our  account  with  this  guard 
we  can  behold  none  of  the  inner  mysteries  of 
the  temple.  Billow's  biblical  paraphrase,  "In 
the  beginning  was  Rhythm!"  should  be  the 
Leitmotiv  of  every  student  of  music.  And 
Rhythm  exists  solely  through  Accent. 

When  you  read  a  new  musical  work,  and 
its  thoughts  seem  abstruse,  increase  (or,  rather, 
exaggerate)  its  accents  for  a  little  while  and 
it  will  quickly  clear  up.  If  anything  technical 
seems  inordinately  difficult,  increase  the  power 
of  your  accents  during  slow  practice,  and  it 
will  soon  be  easy.  If  a  run  refuses  to  roll 
evenly  and  smoothly,  reverse  the  accents  for 
a  while,  or  shift  them  to  the  weaker  fingers 
while  practicing  slowly,  and  the  run  will  soon 
be  equalized.  If  polyrhythms  seem  unattain- 
able— if  one  hand  seems  incapable  of  playing 
four  notes  to  the  three  of  the  other  hand — 
accentuate  the  "dead  points"  a  little  more 
strongly,  and  all  will  soon  be  well. 
[51] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

These  latter  uses  of  the  accent,  however, 
merely  benefit  the  player,  and  him,  again,  more 
especially  while  he  is  learning  a  new  work; 
they  are  helpful  during  preparation.  When 
this  stage  is  past,  when  the  complete  result 
Is  presented  to  the  auditor — and  he  should 
now  be  the  chief  object  of  the  player's  solici- 
tude— then  the  accent  rises  to  paramount 
importance. 

The  flayer  reaches  an  understanding  for  a 
new  work  with  the  assistance  of  his  ears, 
eyes,  hands  and  feet.  His  ability  to  impart 
this  knowledge  to  his  hearer,  whose  sole  means 
of  perception  is  his  ear,  is  quite  another  and 
more  difficult  matter.  The  hearer  has  no 
score  before  him  by  which  his  eye  can  follow 
the  player;  nor  can  he  have  acquired  any 
previous  familiarity  with  a  new  work — and 
why  should  he?  He  may,  furthermore,  be 
unacquainted  with  the  conventions  of  slip- 
shod piano-playing.  But,  connoisseur  or  lay- 
man, when  listening  to  a  new  composition  he 
has  no  means  whatever  by  which  to  form  an 
idea  of  it  except  through  the  interpretation 
of  the  player;  that  is,  not  through  what  the 
pianist  means  to  say,  but  only  through  that 
which  he  does  say. 

This  looks  like  a  truism.  It  may  be  classed 
as  such.  But  it  would  bear  to  be  graven  in 
stone  over  the  portals  of  many  Concert  and 
[52] 


Accent 

Recital  halls;  and  in  every  music  schoolroom 
it  invites  repetition  without  limit. 

THE  PHYSIOLOGICAL  EFFECT  OF  ACCENT. 

Accent  and  Pause  enable  the  player  to 
convey  the  design  of  his  music  to  his  audience. 

Now,  what  is  their  effect  upon  the  audience? 
Gratification — sensuous,  mental,  and  possibly 
also  emotional. 

But  let  us  see  whether  the  hearer,  while 
experiencing  this  gratification,  is  active  or 
passive.  "This  question  can  be  answered  only 
by  his  own  sincerity,  the  presence  or  absence 
of  which  will  show  whether  he  merely  hears 
(since  hearing  is  a  purely  physical  and  involun- 
tary function),  or  listens  (since  listening  is  a 
mental  and  deliberate  act).  We  shall,  however, 
not  waste  our  time  on  fashionable  pretenders, 
but  will  select  for  the  subject  of  the  following 
observations  an  auditor  who  really  does  desire 
to  understand  what  he  hears.  What  does  he 
do  while  he  Is  listening?  He  keeps  step  with 
the  music!  Yes,  though  he  be  crowded  into 
a  narrow  seat,  possibly  holding  on  his  lap 
his  overcoat,  hat,  program,  opera-glass,  etc.; 
though  he  is  forbidden  by  good  breeding  to 
mark  the  rhythm  with  his  foot;  though  he 
dare  not  even  nod  his  head  with  the  positive 
beats  for  fear  of  exciting  the  ridicule  of  idle 
[53] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

observers — yet  he  keeps  step!  He  unconscious- 
ly adjusts  his  breathing — and  probably  also 
his  pulse  (this  point  is  still  under  debate 
among  experimenting  physiologists) — to  the 
time-beats  of  the  music.  In  the  first  few 
measures,  or  rather,  as  soon  as  he  has  under- 
stood the  rhythm^  he  will  begin  to  breathe  at 
every  beat  or  at  every  second,  third,  fourth 
beat,  according  to  the  speed  and  type  of  the 
rhythm.  Music, therefore,  in  addition  to  affect- 
ing him  sensuously,  emotionally  and  mentally, 
has  also  a  physiological  effect  upon  the  hearer. 

While  the  precise  nature  of  this  physiological 
effect  may  not  be  fully  known,  or  its  extent 
and  power  not  precisely  measured,  its  verity 
is,  nevertheless,  no  longer  doubted  by  phy- 
siologists. It  forms  the  basis  of  Prof.  Chomet's 
musicopathic  theories  and  practices. 

This  is  a  matter  of  serious  significance,  and 
should  deeply  concern  the  player  at  the  outset. 
In  stating  his  subject,  or  in  making  the  initial 
statement  of  any  thought  that  occurs  in  the 
piece,  he  should  strive  for  the  greatest  possible 
clearness  of  rhythm  in  order  to  make  it  as  easy 
as  he  can  for  his  auditor  to  effect  the  read- 
justment of  his  breathing  and  pulse.  For  until 
this  is  accomplished  the  auditor  keeps  mentally 
groping  for  a  handle  by  which  to  grasp  the 
music,  and  while  so  occupied  he  can  do  nothing 
else.  Neither  can  he  appreciate  the  music, 
[54] 


Accent 

nor  follow  the  stated  thoughts  into  the  mazes 
of  their  contrapuntal  developments.  A  pianist 
should,  therefore,  write  in  plain  characters, 
especially  at  the  first  exposition  of  his  subjects; 
he  should,  above  all,  make  his  rhythms  distinct^ 
so  as  to  help  his  auditor  to  "get  settled." 
How  difficult  this  is  for  the  auditor,  even  under 
favorable  conditions,  can  readily  be  seen 
whenever  he  has  to  listen  to  syncopation 
before  having  heard  the  regular  time-beats. 
Then  it  is  the  accent  alone  that  can  save  him 
from  confusion  or  utter  misunderstanding. 
If  Chopin's  Etude,  op.  25,  No.  4,  is  played 
without  plainly  perceptible  accents  on  the  reg- 
ular time-beats 


/,  Agritat 

0 

♦ 

^  ff 

«rR=*= 

^g^g^ 

»T  r» 

V 

'^  11  r 

S3 

■n^JV-r^H 

^ 

\  \J  u 

the  conception  that  is  forced  upon  the  hearer 
can  be  no  other  than 


Syncopation   is   one   of   the   chiefest   musical 
expressions  of  agitation,  of  unrest;  it  is,  practi- 

[55] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

cally,  a  reversal  of  pulse-beats  such  as  we 
experience  under  the  stress  of  great  anxiety, 
apprehension  or — more  especially  if  the  melodic 
tones  precede  (anticipate)  the  regular  beats — 
of  joyful  impatience.  Is  it  not  plain  that  the 
auditor  must  be  enabled  to  perceive  a  syn- 
copation as  such,  if  it  is  not  completely  to  fail 
of  its  intended  purpose?  And  how  can  he  hear 
that  the  melodic  notes  are  not  on  the  beats 
unless  he  is  in  some  way  apprized  of  the  beats. 
But  how  can  the  player  inform  him  as  to  the 
beats?  Only  through  a  healthy  accentuation 
of  the  regular  beats.  This  accentuation  must 
not  be  crude;  it  must  not  trespass  on  the 
esthetic  line,  nor  should  it  be  needlessly  per- 
sistent; but  it  must  be  perceptible  and — if 
abandoned  after  a  while,  to  avoid  monotony — - 
it  must  be  resumed  with  sufficient  frequency 
to  prevent  the  hearer  from  thinking  that  the 
time-arrangement  might  have  changed,  and 
it  must  then  be  sufficiently  clear  to  keep  him 
constantly  en  rapport  with  the  gasping  charac- 
ter of  syncopations. 

Another  case  that  craves  an  accent  occurs 
whenever  a  theme  or  melody  begins  after  a 
strong  (positive)  beat,  as,  for  instance,  in  the 
third  of  Schumann's  "Four  Marches,"  op.  76 
(called  "Camp-Scene").  Its  theme  opens  on 
the  second  beat,  and  there  lies  a  peculiar 
whim  in  this  opening;  a  virility,  a  vein  of  good 
[56] 


Accent 

cheer  and  good  humor  that  will  be  entirely 
lost  on  the  hearer  if  the  player  leads  him  to 
accept  this  second  beat  as  a  first  beat.  In 
fact,  the  whole  phrase  of  two  measures  be- 
comes inextricably  confused  unless  we  fully 
understand  that  the  starting  note  of  the  melody 
is  the  second  beat.  In  order,  however,  to 
understand  this  beat  as  a  second  we  must  needs 
hear  a  first  beat.  Hence,  the  first  beat,  lying  in 
the  accompaniment,  must  have  an  accent  of 
sufficient  gravity  and  character  to  designate 
it  as  such. 

The  same  holds  good  in  cases  where  a  melody 
begins  before  a  strong  beat  and  touches  no 
new  note  at  the  first  beat,  but  is  tied  over  into 
the  new  measure.  Since  the  melody  furnishes 
in  such  cases  no  opportunity  for  indicating  to 
the  auditor  how  the  time-beats  are  arranged, 
some  other  part  of  the  whole  (the  bass,  or, 
if  that  be  missing,  some  middle  part)  must 
assume  that  function.  The  bass  must  do  it, 
e.  g.,  in  the  Sixth  Variation  of  Schumann's 
Impromptus  on  a  theme  by  Clara  Wieck,  op. 
5,  or  in  the  last  movement  of  Beethoven's 
Sonata,  op.  28,  third  measure. 

In  cases  where  (the  melody  anticipating  the 
beat  and  being  held  over)  there  should  be  no 
new  voice  or  part  entering  upon  the  beat,  I 
suggest  that  the  accent  be  produced  by  a 
peculiar,  sudden  action  of  the  pedal.  For 
[57] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

illustration  we  may  look  at  the  little  memorial 
to  Mendelssohn  which  Schumann  Included  In 
his  "Album  for  the  Young"  as  number  26, 


or  In  his  "Faschings-Schwank"  op.  26,  first 
movement,  at  the  place  where  the  signature 
changes  for  the  first  time  to  E  flat.  The  cases 
are  Identical,  for  In  both  the  melody  enters  before 
the  first  beat,  while  on  the  first  beat  there  Is 
nothing  new  to  play.  In  such  cases  I  suggest 
that  the  Initial  tone  be  struck  with  some  force; 
not  incompatible  with  the  prevailing  dynamic 
level,  but  loud  enough  to  cause  the  strings  of 
all  higher  harmonics  to  co-vibrate  when, 
through  a  quick  tread  upon  the  pedal,  they 
are  freed  from  their  dampers  and  enabled  to 
add  their  tone-force  to  the  tone  struck  before. 
This  tread  upon  the  pedal  should  occur  upon 
the  first  beat,  that  is,  some  time  after  the 
key  Is  struck.  The  acoustic  picture  presenting 
itself  to  the  ear  will  be  somewhat  like  this: 


58] 


Accent 


or  thus  expressed  in  notes: 


and  it  will  go  far  to  bring  the  hearer  at  once 
en  rapport  with  the  rhythmic  features  of  the 
musical  thought.  Of  course,  it  will  require 
some  skill  to  measure  the  exact  strength  of 
the  initial  tone  and  to  produce  the  proper 
and  very  sudden  action  of  the  pedal  with  the 
foot,  but  practice  with  close  observation  and 
keen  listening  will  soon  bring  the  desired  results. 


In  Beethoven's  Sonata,  op.  7,  first  movement, 
the  last  ten  measures  of  the  first  part,  the  case 
is  similar.  We  cannot  imagine  these  passages 
executed  by  bow-instruments  or  human  voices 
without  feeling  that,  after  taking  the  respective 
notes  on  the  negative  beat,  they  would  exert 
a  slight  pressure  upon  this  note  when  the 
positive  beat  falls  due.  The  pressure  may,  in 
some  cases,  be  exerted  unconsciously,  but  even 
then  it  would  be  due  to  the  player's  or  singer's 
[59] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

innate  desire  of  conveying  to  his  hearers  the 
rhythmic  quality  of  the  thought.  Since  the 
use  of  the  pedal,  just  suggested,  enables  the 
pianist  to  effect  very  nearly  the  same  result — 
namely,  to  produce  an  accent  upon  a  note 
already  sounding — there  is  no  reason  to  reject 
it  or  regard  it  as  illegitimate,  still  less  as 
imaginary.  For  paramount  to  all  other  con- 
siderations in  rhythm,  is  the  accent!  The 
auditor  must  know,  must  feel  whether  a  phrase 
begins  accented  or  unaccented,  heavy  or  light, 
positive  or  negative;  or,  to  put  it  still  differ- 
ently, whether  the  beat  he  hears  first  is  a 
firmly  starting  or  a  preparatory,  introductory 
beat.  He  must  know  it  for  esthetic  and,  as 
stated  before,  also  for  physiological  reasons. 
In  speaking  of  the  physiological  action  of 
music  upon  the  auditor  reference  was  made 
chiefly  to  the  accent,  but  it  is  not  limited  to 
it,  as  we  shall  presently  see. 

THE    PRINTED    PAUSE. 

The  player  should  pay  most  punctilious 
attention  to  the  time-value  of  printed  pauses. 
Nothing,  not  even  a  false  note,  causes  such 
distress  to  an  attentive  listener  as  the  curtailing 
of  stated  pauses.  He  feels  as  if  an  invisible 
power  were  jerking  him  abruptly  into  the  next 
measure;  as  if  he  were  walking  with  some  one 

[601 


Accent 

who  compels  him  at  the  most  unexpected 
places  to  change  his  step.  But  even  this  does 
not  quite  fully  describe  his  sensations.  We  all 
know  how  we  feel  on  a  staircase  when  we  try, 
at  the  top  or  at  the  bottom,  to  take  a  step 
that  is  not  there.  How  it  jars  every  joint, 
every  nerve,  in  our  body!  Think  of  going 
through  this  experience  forty  or  fifty  times 
in  ten  minutes!  My  analogy  is  not  an  ex- 
aggeration. It  makes  little  difference  whether 
our  muscles  and  nerves  or  our  breathing  and 
pulse  are  disturbed.  Such  a  shock  is  precisely 
what  is  suffered  by  the  attentive  listener  when 
the  player  fails  to  honor  the  pauses  which 
separate  one  phrase  (or  sub-phrase,  or  section 
of  a  melody)  from  another. 

The  Art  of  Music  owes  much  gratitude  to 
the  physiologists  for  many  valuable  and  far- 
reaching  services,  but  for  none  more  than  for 
having  helped  the  musician  to  discover  that 
the  discomfort  arising  from  curtailed  or  dis- 
regarded pauses  is  not  a  matter  of  hyper- 
culture  or  esthetics;  but  purely,  aye,  brutally 
physical;  that  it  is  not  merely  offensive  to  the 
good  taste  of  some  over-refined  arbiter  ele- 
gantiarum,  but  a  discomfort  which,  like  a 
toothache,  afflicts  the  learned  and  unlearned 
alike,  although  the  unlearned  in  music  feel 
these  sensations  without  recognizing  their 
source. 

[61] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 


THE    UNPRINTED    PAUSE,    OR   ART-PAUSE. 

Whatever  pedantry  may  say  against  un- 
prescribed  pauses  can  have  no  value  when  its 
arguments  are  met  by  the  statement  that 
there  are  cases — frequent  cases — in  which  a 
pause,  though  not  stated  in  print,  is  demanded 
by  physical  necessity.  When  a  composer  fails 
to  put  down  in  writing  a  pause  where  its 
absence  forms  a  physical  obstacle  to  an 
intelligent  understanding  of  the  phrase,  he  has 
either  been  careless  or  has  judged  the  musician- 
ship of  his  interpreter  by  his  own  and — was 
all  too  trustful.  It  does  not  matter  in  the 
least  whether  that  composer's  name  was 
Beethoven  or  John  Doe. 

To  prove  the  physical  necessity  of  the  art- 
pause  must,  then,  be  our  next  task. 

Without  going  unnecessarily  into  the  phy- 
siology of  the  ear  we  can  build  our  arguments 
upon  the  fact  that  a  slight  motion  of  any  kind 
can  be  brought  to  a  standstill  in  less  time 
than  a  motion  more  violent.  Be  it  a  surface 
of  water,  a  carriage,  our  own  walking  or  the 
responsive  vibration  of  the  intricate  and 
delicate  apparatus  for  our  hearing,  we  can 
increase  the  violence  of  motion  instantly^  but 
we  cannot  decrease  it  with  equal  promptitude. 
Now,  whenever  a  composer  prescribes  a  sudden 
change  from  /  to  ^,  or  from  ff  to  pp,  and 
[62] 


Accent 

we  interpose  no  pause,  the  auditor  has  no 
earthly  chance  of  hearing  the  notes  of  the  pp 
until  his  Inner  ear  has  regained  that  lesser 
degree  of  vibration  which  could  respond  to  a 
pianissimo. 

Let  me  Illustrate.  We  stand  upon  a  rustic 
bridge  that  spans  a  quiet  pond,  into  which 
we  throw  a  pebble  weighing  (say)  an  ounce. 
As  soon  as  the  shock  (Impact)  has  spent  itself, 
we  see  the  rings  that  have  formed,  one  encir- 
cling the  other,  moving  towards  the  shore  in 
every  direction,  producing  a  beautiful  ripple. 
Now  we  throw  a  rock  weighing  fifty  pounds 
into  the  water  and  let  the  little  pebble  follow 
it  immediately.  The  result  Is*  that  we  see 
the  violent  motion  caused  by  the  rock,  and 
that  absolutely  no  effect  whatever  is  visible 
from  the  pebble.  We  know  positively  that  it 
must  be  there,  but  our  eye  cannot  perceive  it. 
But  if  we  wait  until  the  violence  of  the  agi- 
tation caused  by  the  fall  of  the  rock  has  so 
far  subsided  that  the  water  becomes  visibly 
sensible  to  a  motion  of  a  lesser  degree,  and 
then  throw  in  our  pebble,  we  shall  again  see 

*There  is  also  another  result,  important  enough  for  later 
observation  and  therefore  reserved  for  discussion  in  its  proper 
place;  namely,  that  the  time  consumed  by  the  shock  (impact) 
is  longer  in  proportion  to  the  weight,  size  and  the  height 
of  the  fall  of  the  rock;  the  "rings"  or  waves  do  not  form 
themselves  as  quickly  after  the  rock  as  they  did  after  the 
one-ounce  pebble.  Mark  this  well,  and  remember  it,  on 
page  68. 

[63] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

the  same  rippling  result  as  the  first  pebble 
caused.  A  vibration  in  the  responsive  mech- 
anism  of   our   ear,    microscopically   enlarged, 

looking   like    this     wwwaa/uwwxa/  ^    may   instantly 

be  changed  into  one   like  this    l/lM/UUKlfUlfU  ; 

but  we  cannot  reverse  the  change  with  the 
same  abruptness,  because  the  more  violent 
vibrations  need  a  certain  amount  of  time  to 
calm  down.  And  if  we  do  not  allow  for  this 
time,  if  we  play  pp  immediately  after  a  ff,  the 
effect  upon  the  hearer  will  be,  that  all  the 
music  which  occurred  during  that  time  which 
the  following  illustration  indicates  by  the 
dotted  lines 

U  U  U  l>CKAAAr^^^y^.' 

might  as  well  not  have  been  played,  for  It 
would  go  simply  unheard — that  is,  be  lost 
music. 

Schumann,  keen  observer  that  he  was, 
evidently  speculated  upon  this  "lost  music" 
— upon  these  softer  sounds  produced  during 
the  time  marked  by  the  dotted  line  in  the 
illustration  above  cited.  For  in  his  "Carnaval" 
he  writes  at  the  end  of  the  "Paganini"  Inter- 
mezzo : 

[64] 


Accent 


He  wants  the  ppp  chord  struck  while  the  four 
sforzati  are  still  having  full  sway.  The  new 
chord  is  entirely  foreign  to  its  predecessors, 
yet  he  wants  it  struck  and  struck  under  the 
same  Pedal,  because  it  will  not  he  heard!  It 
will  remain  inaudible  until  the  release  of  the 
Pedal  has  hushed  those  four  accumulated 
thunderous  sforzati.  (Nor  should  this  release 
of  the  Pedal  be  too  sudden,  by  the 
way.)  And  when  the  new  chord  finally 
does  emerge  from  the  preceding  turmoil,  a 
close  observer  may  notice  that  it  has  a  cre- 
scendo eifect.  Why  is  this.''  We  know,  alas, 
that  the  crescendo  upon  a  single  tone  or  chord 
is  denied  to  the  piano,  and  yet  this  crescendo 
effect  is  there.  But  it  is  not  the  piano  that 
produces  this  auditory  illusion;  it  is  our  own 
earl  Proportionately  to  the  subsidence  of 
the  violent  response  that  our  ear  makes  to  the 
preceding /orfij-j-mo,  our  hearing  becomes  more 
and  more  delicately  appreciative  of  the  pianis- 
simo. And  through  this  heightened  sus- 
ceptibility we  perceive  the  soft  chord  with 
increasing  clearness.  We  feel  as  if  it  were  the 
chord  that  grows  stronger. 
[65] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

This,  however,  is  only  to  illustrate  the  fact 
that  a  sudden  pianissimo  following  upon  a 
fortissimo  without  an  intervening  pause  cannot 
he  heard  until  the  aroused  ear  has  calmed  down 
sufficiently  to  be  able  to  sense  it.  In  this 
instance,  the  composer  speculated  rather  upon 
the  absence  of  an  art-pause.  The  following 
example  shows  where  it  is  absolutely  necessary. 

In  the  first  Novellette  of  Schumann's  (op. 
21 )  we  find  in  the  second  part  (erroneously 
designated  as  Trio)  a  modulation  of  unusual 
boldness — unusual  even  for  Schumann.  It  is, 
perhaps,  not  a  modulation  so  much  as  an 
abrupt,  unbridged  transition  from  the  domi- 
nant of  F  into  a  perfect  tonic  chord  of  G  flat. 
(Counting  from  the  beginning  of  the  Novellette 
it  is  the  step  from  measure  34  to  35.)  If  we 
make  no  art-pause  before  the  chord  of  G  flat 
with  its  shrill  cross-relations,  the  juxtaposition 
of  the  two  unrelated  harmonies  is  downright 
cacophonous.  By  making  a  pause,  however, 
we  indicate  an  interruption  in  the  flow  of  the 
melody;  we  announce  (as  through  a  comma) 
an  interpolation  in  the  sentence,  and  create 
in  the  hearer  a  feeling  of  suspense,  the  release 
of  which  converts  the  cacophonous  shock  to 
his  ears  into  a  delicious  harmonic  surprise. 
A  pause  of  almost  similar  length  is  needed 
between  measures  44  and  45,  although  here  the 
harmonies  are  not  quite  so  foreign  to  each 
[66] 


Accent 

other,  and  it  seems  as  if  the  degree  of  remote- 
ness of  the  two  harmonies  claimed  a  certain 
proportionality  in  the  pause  to  be  introduced 
between  them.  However,  even  in  this  second 
place  there  still  remains  the  harsh  cross-re- 
lation between  the  D  of  the  last  chord  in 
measure  44  and  the  opening  D  flat  in  the 
Bass  of  measure  45,  which  clamors  for  a 
pause  of  some  length. 

Similar  occasions  for  pauses  signalizing  un- 
expected harmonic  turns  can  be  found  in 
Schubert,  Impromptu,  op.  90,  No.  2  (counting 
backward  from  theend,  between  measure  30 
and  measure  29).    Here  the  abrupt  change 
of    harmony    coincides    with    an    equally 
sudden  change  from^  to  ^,  and  the  pause 
is,    therefore,    doubly    necessary.      Eight 
measures  later  the  same  change  recurs. 
Another  reason  for  the  art-pause  presents 
itself  in 

Mendelssohn's  "Song  without  Words,"  No. 
47.  It  contains  what  is  known  as  a 
"chained  period."  The  beginning  of  meas- 
ure 61  forms  the  conclusion  of  the  period 
that  began  three  measures  before;  and 
at  the  same  time  it  is  the  start  of  a  new 
period.  If  the  measures  from  58  to  61 
are  played  in  strict  time,  the  entire  effect 
of  the  chained  period  is  lost.  But  if,  on 
approaching  measure  60,  we  make  a  slight 
[67] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

retard  and  before  entering  the  6ist  measure 
create   a   feeling   of   suspense   by   a   tiny 
pause,  the  significance  of  this  measure  as 
initiating  a  new  period  is  at  once  under- 
stood.    The  A  of  the  melody  is  the  con- 
cluding sequel  of  the  preceding  G  sharp; 
but  the  entirely  unexpected  chord  of  the 
subdominant  upon  which   this  A  is   set, 
characterizes  it  as  the  initial  note  of  the 
new  period;  hence,   the  art-pause  is  im- 
perative here. 
The    first    two    examples    (Schubert's    Im- 
promptu and  Schumann's  Novellette)   craved 
an  art-pause  for  reasons  of  harmonic  clarity, 
while   in   the   last   example   the    art-pause   is 
induced  by  considerations  of  a  constructive, 
formal  nature.    The  next  example  illustrates  a 
third  reason  for  the  art-pause.    It  is  the  purely 
aural  reason.     (The  reader  will  remember  the 
discussion  of  a  ^  following  abruptly  upon  an/, 
and  the  illustration  by  the  quiet  surface  of  a 
pond  on  page  63 .)    The  Andante  of  Beethoven's 
Sonata  op.  28  furnishes  a  fine  example  of  such 
a  necessity  for  the  art-pause.    The  movement 
starts  p,  but  at  the  end  of  the  second  measure 
there  begins  a  crescendo  which  lasts  through 
the    entire    third    measure    and    which,    with 
the  slowness  of  the  movement,  must  lead  to  a 
considerable    degree   of   loudness   when — sud- 
denly— the    fourth    measure    opens    p    again. 
[68  1 


Accent 

This  piano,  without  a  preparatory  pause,  is 
impossible.  The  reverberation  of  the  preceding 
chord  cannot  be  stopped  so  suddenly  as  to 
enable  the  hearer  to  perceive  the  p  chord, 
unless  it  is  stopped  at  the  expense  of  all 
esthetic  charm.  The  p  is  not  a  mistake,  for 
it  is  repeated  a  number  of  times  and  recurs 
with  heightened  significance  in  the  I2th  and 
14th  measures  (counting  backwards  from  the 
end);  besides,  it  is  one  of  Beethoven's  favorite 
dynamic  effects,  and  I  am  satisfied  that  he, 
when  playing  the  movement  himself,  made  the 
art-pause  of  which  I  speak.  He  had  to  make 
it!  But  I  am  almost  equally  certain  that  he 
was  not  conscious  of  making  it. 

Something  similar  occurs  in  the  first  Allegro 
of  the  Sonata  op.  3 1,  No.  2.  Counting  twenty- 
four  measures  backward  from  the  first  double- 
bar  we  find  a  p  entering  suddenly  and  im- 
mediately after  ff  and  carrying,  moreover,  a 
.rather  unexpected  but  beautiful  change  of 
tonality  with  It.  So  we  are  placed  before  a 
choice  of  either  making  a  mere  murmuring 
jumble  of  the  bass  figure  that  begins  with  the 
low  G  and  keeps  the  auditor  for  a  while  in 
uncertainty  as  to  what  passes  before  his 
hearing,  or  Interpolating  an  art-pause  of 
sufficient  length  to  prepare  the  auditor's  ear 
for  the  ensuing  dynamic  and  harmonic  change. 
Beethoven's    Sonatas    contain  such    and    kin- 

169] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

dred    abrupt   changes   from  /  to   />   in   great 
numbers. 

To  sum  up:  The  Art-pause  may  be  neces- 
sary for  harmonic,  formal  and  dynamic  reasons. 
I  should  have  stated,  as  a  fourth  reason,  that 
it  may  also  be  dictated  by  good  taste  or 
artistic  esthetics,  were  it  not  for  the  thought 
that  good  taste  in  music  usually  receives  its 
promptings  from  one  or  more  of  the  reasons 
just  mentioned.  Indeed,  I  cannot  help  be- 
lieving that  most  of  the  things  we  are  wont  to 
class  as  esthetic  requirements  repose  upon  a 
purely  physical  basis,  though  the  present 
status  of  the  various  branches  of  natural 
science  may  not  yet  enable  us  to  prove  it  in 
all  cases.  The  artistic  mind  has  often  forefelt 
the  presence  of  certain  laws  and  left  it  to  the 
scientific  mind  to  find  and  formulate  them. 
Art  says  prophetically  to  Science:  "Some- 
where 'round  here  there  lies  a  rich  vein  of 
truth;  now  dig!"  And  Science  digs  and — 
after  a  while — verifies  the  prophecy;  though 
just  now  it  is  a  long  way  "behind  its  orders." 
A  good  many  of  the  aberrations  of  taste  into 
which  our  present  hyper-modern  creative  artists 
have  drifted  may  be  accounted  for  by  this 
tardiness. 


[7o: 


Tempo. 

If  the  discussion  of  this  topic  were  not  so 
lengthy  as  it  must  necessarily  be,  it  should 
have  found  its  place  in  the  chapter  on  "Old 
Errors."  For  in  the  field  of  music  there  is 
no  error  more  widely  spread  than  the  belief 
that  each  and  every  composition  has  its 
definitely  prescribed  rate  of  motion  or  speed, 
and  that,  to  be  "correct,"  it  must  be  played 
at  this  rate.  "Correct!"  What  agonies  this 
word  has  caused  to  artists  and  artistic  teachers! 
Some  American  writer  has  introduced  the  term 
"bromides"  for  statements  of  the  obvious.  He 
should  have  completed  his  dictum  by  saying 
that  to  the  artistic  mind  there  is  no  worse 
bromide  than  "correctness."  For  it  is  indis- 
pensable, of  course,  but  oh,  so  insufficient. 
I  shall  never  forget  my  beloved  master  Kul- 
lak's  comment  on  this  word.  One  of  my 
classmates  (he  did  not  stay  long)  was  a  perfect 
fiend  for  correctness;  and  when  on  a  certain 
occasion  he  had  finished  playing,  our  dear 
master  said,  with  an  amused  smile:  "That 
was  very  correct!  Very!  And  now  let  some 
one  get  at  that  piano  who  plays  naturally." 

After  all,  music  is  not  a  thing  apart  from  life, 
existing  by  and  for  itself.     It  is,  as  we  saw  in 
the  introductory  chapters,  a  message  from  one 
[711 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

human  soul  to  another.  The  demands  a  good 
composition  makes  upon  our  learnable  knowl- 
edge can,  therefore,  go  no  further  than  to 
notation,  terminology  and  mechanical  dex- 
terity. A  good  memory  and  a  little  persistence 
in  technical  practice  will  soon  fulfill  these 
requirements.  But  music  makes  other  de- 
mands, and  these  are  not  so  easily  supplied. 
The  trouble  is  that  a  musical  work  of  art, 
before  it  yields  its  spiritual  contents  to  any 
one — player  or  hearer — demands  the  man 
himself!  The  whole  man!  His  keenest  sensi- 
bility, his  finest  instinct,  the  most  loving 
attitude  of  his  heart  and  mind,  in  short, 
each  and  every  part  of  that  which  constitutes 
his  personality.  That  this  is  not  overstating 
the  demands  which  art  and  art-works  make 
upon  their  devotees  is  proved  by  the  person- 
ality of  every  man  and  woman  whom  the 
world  has  recognized  as  an  artist;  for 

Art  is,  what  thou  art; 
All  else  is  artifice. 

Granting  this  premise,  and  assuming  that 
in  compliance  with  these  inexorable  demands 
we  did  invest  our  personality  in  the  study 
of  an  artistic  composition,  how  in  the  name 
of  common  sense  can  we  accept  a  prescription 
of  speed  as  more  than  a  suggestion  made  on 
the  most  general  lines?  Shall  we  devote  all 
[72] 


Tempo 

that  is  best  in  us  to  a  matter  that  compels 
us  afterwards  to  wear  a  straitjacket?  After 
being  applied,  shall  our  personality  keep 
silence?  Shall  it  have  nothing  to  say?  Who, 
but  a  soldier — in  the  only  unnatural  occupation 
in  the  world  that  is  socially  recognized — walks 
with  a  prescribed  gait?  What  two  people, 
approaching  a  common  destination  from  differ- 
ent but  equidistant  points  and  with  the  same 
urgency,  would  use  exactly  the  same  number 
of  steps  or  precisely  the  same  time?  Do  not 
our  stature  and  the  proportion  of  our  body 
influence  our  gait?  Are  not  the  physiological 
actions  of  our  heart  and  lungs  important  fac- 
tors in  determining  it?  And  if  these  personal 
and  purely  physical  attributes  assert  themselves 
in  the  commonest  function  of  our  daily  life, 
shall  this  right  be  denied  to  our  spiritual  self 
when  it  performs  one  of  its  finest  functions — 
that  of  communing  with  other  souls? 

Of  course,  our  liberty — on  the  premise  before 
us — is  subject  to  laws,  as  is  liberty  altogether. 
We  must  not,  for  instance,  change  an  Andante 
into  an  Allegro,  or  vice  versa;  but  to  a  person 
who  earnestly  seeks  for  the  spirit  of  a  com- 
position such  admonition  is  not  necessary,  for 
such  a  person  can  hardly  miss  the  right  tempo 
in  any  piece,  even  if  the  tempo-mark  should 
be  left  out — as  it  is  in  many  pieces.  For,  as 
I  believe,  the  instinct  which  we  call  the  sense 
[73] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

of  propriety  is  a  part  of  the  great  "moral  law 
within  us"  which  Kant  regarded  as  the  com- 
plementary half  of  his  philosophy,  and  this  in- 
stinct guides  us  rightly  if  we  give  it  only  a  fair 
share  of  our  attention  and  obey  its  promptings. 

I  also  believe,  however,  that  even  this 
delicate  question  of  tempo  has  a  physical  basis 
and,  I  think,  this  basis  contains  the  proof  that 
tempo  is  an  individual  matter.  But,  to  make 
the  reader  see  what  I  believe  to  be  this  phys- 
ical basis,  I  must  invite  him  to  follow  me  once 
more  to  the  "rustic  bridge  that  spans  a  quiet 
pond,"  of  which  I  spoke  on  page  63.  (See  the 
foot-note  there.)  I  said  there:  "As  soon  as  the 
shock  (impact) — of  the  rock  or  pebble  striking 
the  watery  surface — has  spent  itself,  we  see 
the  rings  that  have  formed.  ..."  It  is  to 
this  impact  or  shock  that  we  must  now  turn 
our  attention. 

When  the  impact  occurs,  it  stirs  the  surface 
of  the  water,  but  its  motion  is  not  at  once 
regulated.  The  wavy  rings  do  not  form  at 
once.  The  falling  rock  or  pebble  has  dis- 
placed a  proportionate  amount  of  water  which, 
unable  to  escape  in  any  other  direction  (because 
of  the  pressure  it  encounters  on  all  sides) 
leaps  fountain-like  upwards;  and  not  until 
it  falls  back  do  the  "rings"  begin  to  form. 
The  time  necessary  for  its  return  to  the  surface 
depends  upon  its  bulk,  which,  in  turn,  stands 
i74] 


Tempo 

in  some  relation  to  the  size  and  weight  of  the 
stone,  as  well  as  to  the  distance  it  traverses 
in  falling.  A  small  pebble,  however,  generates 
the  rings  in  a  much  shorter  time  after  striking 
the  water  than  does  a  rock  of  fifty  pounds  in 
weight,  because  the  amount  of  water  the 
latter  has  displaced  in  falling  is  larger,  and 
this  larger  body  needs  more  time  to  readjust 
itself  in  its  element.  The  rekder  who  remem- 
bers that  articulate  tone  is  caused  by  regulated 
air-vibration  begins,  no  doubt,  to  perceive 
that  our  pond  and  pebble  and  rock  are  not 
romantic  illustrations  but  perfect  analogies. 
For  the  phenomenon  of  the  wavy  rings  is  to 
the  perceptive  power  of  our  eye  precisely  what 
the  air-vibrations,  caused  by  the  felt-covered 
hammer  on  striking  the  piano-strings,  are  to 
the  sensibility  of  our  ear.  The  drum  and 
the  harp-like  Corti  organ  in  our  ear  are  stirred 
as  soon  as  we  strike  the  key.  We  perceive 
"tone"  at  once;  but  we  need  a  certain  amount 
of  time  to  perceive  the  "pitch"  of  that  tone, 
and  the  length  of  this  time  differs  with  the 
degree  of  force  with  which  we  struck  the  key. 
The  reader  can  easily  convince  himself  of  the 
truth  of  this  statement  by  a  simple  experiment. 
He  only  needs  to  play  a  very  rapid  succession 
of  notes  somewhat  loudly  in  one  of  the  higher 
octaves  of  the  piano  and  then  play  the  same 
figure  with  the  same  rapidity  and  same  degree 
[75] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

of  strength  in  the  lowest  octave  and  he  will  be 
certain  to  observe  that  in  the  higher  octave  he 
understood  the  pitch  of  every  note  practically 
at  once,  while  in  the  lowest  octave  he  perceived 
hardly  more  than  a  heavy,  rhythmical  rumble. 
If  he  wishes  to  sense  the  pitch  of  these  low 
notes,  he  will  find  it  necessary  to  play  the 
figure  much  slower.  The  explanation  tallies 
exactly  with  that  of  the  waves  in  our  pond. 
The  low  strings  in  the  piano  are  stouter, 
heavier  and  longer  than  the  high  ones;  hence, 
they  consume  more  time  to  overcome  the 
stronger  impact  from  the  heavier  hammer 
before  they  can  adjust  themselves  to  regulated 
vibration,  that  is,  to  such  vibratory  motion 
as  our  ear  can  perceive — not  merely  as  tone, 
but  as  pitch.  The  suggestion  of  the  foregoing 
experiment  reminds  me  of  the  passages  for  the 
double-basses  in  the  Scherzo  of  Beethoven's 
Fifth  Symphony: 


Even  in  the  best  orchestras  this  passage  never 
amounts  to  more  than  a  rumbling  noise,  re- 
deemed, however,  by  its  rhythm,  through 
which  we  recognize  it  as  a  thematic  fragment; 
through  its  rhythm — and  because  we  have 
heard  this  rhythm  many  times  before  this 
[7e] 


Tempo 

passage  occurs,  so  that  through  the  element 
of  presupposed  familiarity  (see  page  35) — our 
memory  comes  to  our  assistance.  Had  Beet- 
hoven committed  the  blunder — unthinkable 
in  conjunction  with  his  name — of  putting  this 
bass  figure  at  the  beginning  of  the  Scherzo, 
the  effect  would  not  have  been  humorous,  as 
he  intended  it  to  be,  but  comical.  We  could 
never  have  understood  the  notes  without 
looking  into  the  score.  If,  however,  the  same 
figure  were  played  in  a  slower  movement,  say 
Andante,  we  should  have  no  trouble  whatever 
in  discerning  the  pitch  of  every  note  as  soon 
as  played.  The  difference  in  the  eifect  of  the 
tempo  upon  our  ear  is,  of  course,  due  not  only 
to  the  low  range  of  these  notes,  but  also  to 
the  necessary  ponderousness  of  the  requisite 
instruments.  Whether  we  throw  our  fifty- 
pound  rock  into  a  well,  pool,  pond,  lake  or  the 
ocean,  the  amount  of  water  thrown  into  the 
air  by  its  impact  would  always  be  the  same  and 
would  always  need  the  same  length  of  time 
to  fall  back  and  to  start  the  wavy  motion  of 
the  surface.  To  reduce  this  length  of  time 
we  must  take  a  smaller,  and  therefore  lighter, 
rock.      Just   so   it   is   with    articulate   tone.* 

*A  cannon-shot  surely  produces  a  sufficient  rate' of  air- 
vibrations  to  create  a  definite  pitch;  yet  no  one  could  ever 
recognize  the  tone  because  of  its  all  too  short  duration. 
For  by  the  time  that  our  ear  has  overcome  the  tremendous 
impact,  the  tone  is  gone. 

[77] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

A  heavy  touch  upon  the  piano  produces  a 
stronger  impact  than  does  a  lighter  one,  no 
matter  which  region  of  the  keyboard  it  strikes. 
An  orchestra  of  three  hundred  cannot  play 
as  quickly  as  one  of  one  hundred  if  it  wishes 
to  impress  the  audience  with  the  same  degree 
of  clearness.  A  pianist  who  possesses  a  natu- 
rally rich,  fleshy  touch  is  bound  to  play  slower 
than  one  whose  touch  is  dry  and  bony;  for  if 
he  exceeds  his  natural  speed,  if  he  insists 
upon  equalling  the  actual  instead  of  the  relative 
speed  of  his  leaner  colleague — his  tone  will 
impress  his  hearers'  ears  as  their  eyes  would 
be  impressed  by  the  sight  of  five  persons 
trying  to  sit  upon  a  sofa  built  for  three. 

It  is  not  a  mere  coincidence  that  all  rapid 
ornamental  runs  with  which  Chopin  graces 
his  melodies  are  marked  pp  (unless  they  consist 
only  of  a  broken  chord  which  serves  an  entirely 
different  purpose),  for  if  such  a  run — containing 
chromatic,  diatonic  and  harmonic  intervals  in 
delightful  motley  mixture — were  played  _^,  our 
ear  would  perhaps  be  able  to  follow  it  in  those 
higher  octaves,  but  it  would,  even  then,  be  a 
strain  rather  than  a  pleasure  for  our  hearing. 

I  repeat,  that  we  may  not  change  an  Andante 
into  an  Allegro  or  vice  versa,  in  order  to  say 
that,  on  the  other  hand,  your  Allegro  might, 
but  need  not,  be  my  Allegro.  The  average 
speed  of  one  player  differs  from  that  of  another 
[78] 


Tempo 

player  as  much,  and  in  the  exact  proportion, 
as  does  his  average  "tone."  This  difference  of 
speed  may  also  be  due  to  a  difference  of  con- 
ception. I  mention  it  for  the  sake  of  com- 
pleteness only,  for  conception  is  a  matter 
entirely  beyond  this  discussion.  But  I  feel  no 
hesitation  in  saying  that  a  player's  "tone" 
is  not  altogether  without  influence  even  upon 
his  conceptions,  for  when  he  thinks  in  music 
he  thinks  in  his  own  tone,  as  in  literary  thought 
we  think  in  our  own  vocabulary. 

Some  of  my  readers  may  wonder  how  I 
reconcile  the  foregoing  with  the  metronome- 
marks  frequently  seen.  For  there,  certainly, 
is  a  definite  speed-prescription  in  optima  forma! 
I  pray  the  reader  not  to  feel  scandalized  if  I 
decline  to  regard  the  metronome  with  that 
deference  which  it  receives  at  the  hands  of 
artistic  and  pedagogic  mediocrities.  (See  page 
42,  second  paragraph.)  How  any  musician 
could  ever  play  with  a  metronome,  passes  my 
humble  understanding.  It  is  not  only  an 
inartistic,  but  a  downright  antiartistic  instru- 
ment. In  order  to  prove  this  and  to  explain 
the  vogue  it  has  had  in  spite  of  it,  we  must 
regard  the  inventor  a  little  closer  and  consider 
the  time  in  which  the  misfortune  of  his  inven- 
tion happened.  Malzel  was  the  son,  not  of  a 
musician,  but  of  an  organ-builder.  His  father 
delighted  in  contriving  all  sorts  of  queer  "stops" 
[79] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

which,  of  course,  no  organist  wanted  or  even 
accepted.     These  queer  stops  accumulated  in 
his  shop  until  it  was  a  regular  museum  of  such 
musical  eccentricities.     His  son  inherited  this 
trait.     He  "learned"  music,  but  never  played 
in  public  or  composed  anything.     He  did  not 
even   teach   music,   but  only   "gave  lessons." 
How  much  his  pupils  could  have  learned  from 
him  we  can  infer  from  the  fact  that  he  spent 
all  his  leisure  time  upon  things  that  go  against 
the  very  grain  of  every  one  who  loves  music. 
He  constructed  all  kinds  of  mechanical  instru- 
ments,  such   as   an   automaton   trumpeter,    a 
mechanical  orchestra,   a   "panharmonium,"    I 
believe  also  a  mechanical  chess-player  and — 
the.  metronome!    The  priorityof  this  latter  inven- 
tion was,  besides,  contested  by  a  Dutch  mech- 
anist whose  name  does  not  really  matter.    From 
all  this  it  is  easily  seen  that  the  impulse  leading 
to  the  invention  did  not  come  from  an  artistic 
temperament.    Malzel  received,  however,  Beet- 
hoven's endorsement,  and  I  do  not  believe,  as 
does  Dr.  Thayer  in  his  "Beethoven,"  that  he 
received  it  because  he  had  urged  the  loan  of 
fifty  gold  ducats  upon  Beethoven  when  the 
latter  was   at  the  point  of  going  to  London 
and  feared  that  his  funds  might  possibly  prove 
insufficient  for   a   prolonged   stay.      I   believe 
rather  that  the  endorsement  was  given  in  all 
sincerity.     Musical  pedagogics  in  Beethoven's 
[80] 


Tempo 

day  were  in  their  infancy,  the  understanding 
for  his  works  was  still  as  good  as  closed  to 
most  people,   including  the  rank   and  file  of 
the  contemporary  piano-teachers.    Hence,  any 
device  that  might  prevent  people  from  taking 
an    altogether    absurd    tempo    in    playing    his 
works    seemed    welcome    to    Beethoven.      He 
accepted  the  metronome  with  a  feeling  that, 
in  conditions  such  as  they  were,  "every  little 
helps."     We  must  remember,   however,   that 
the  distinction  between  playing  in  "time"  and 
playing  in  "rhythm"  had  not  yet  dawned  upon 
the  world.     Even  Schumann — though  he  felt 
it,  no  doubt,  as  keenly  as  did  Beethoven  or, 
for  that  matter.  Bach — was  not  conscious  of 
it.    Not  until  the  advent  of  Chopin  began  the 
emancipation  from  strict  time  in  our  conscious- 
ness.    But  with  the  moment  it  came  to  us, 
there  began  also  the  relegation  of  the  metro- 
nome to  its  proper  sphere  of  action,  namely, 
to  serve  as  an  orthophonic  machine  for  regu- 
lating the  gymnastic  exercises  on  the  keyboard, 
which  the  acquisition  of  technic,  unfortunately, 
requires.     It  may  be  said  that  the  metronome 
is  not  intended  to  regulate  the  playing  of  a 
whole  piece,  but  to  give  only  a  general  idea 
of  its  average  speed.     Granted!     But  is   not 
even   this   smaller  use  opposed  to  the  ethics 
of  the  art  divine?    Let  us  see.    A  person  who, 
after  becoming  familiar  with  the  notes  of  a 
[81] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

composition,  sees  nothing  more  in  it  than  the 
notes,  feels  none  of  its  sentimental,  emotional 
or  even  sensuous  charm — such  a  person  might 
be  prevented  by  the  metronome  from  taking  an 
absurdly  slow  or  quick  tempo.  Quite  true; 
but  what  is  gained  thereby?  What  matters 
it  whether  a  person  who  plays  a  piece  without 
understanding  does  it  in  the  right  or  wrong 
tempo?  I,  personally,  would  ten  times  rather 
listen  to  a  wrong  tempo  with  a  conviction 
back  of  it,  however  erroneous  it  might  be, 
than  to  a  right  tempo  dictated  by  a  machine 
or,  for  that  matter,  by  any  influence  extraneous 
to  the  player's  mind.  A  metronome  should  be  in 
every  teacher's  studio,  to  be  judiciously  em- 
ployed in  the  rudimentary  mechanical  work; 
but  as  soon  as  his  pupil  touches  a  composition 
— away  with  it!  For  tempo  is  an  individual 
matter;  it  must  be  felt,  or  it  will  not  convince. 
You'll  ne'er  attain  it,  save  you  know  the  feeling^ 

Save  from  the  soul  it  rises  clear, 

Serene  in  primal  strength,  compelling 

The  hearts  and  minds  of  all  who  hear. 

ne'er  from  heart  to  heart  you'll  speak 

inspiring, 
Save  your  own  heart  is  eloquent! 

(Goethe's  Faust.) 

There  is  in  many  people's  minds  a  tendency 
to  regard  art  altogether  as  something  that  can 
be  learned.     This  conception  is  begotten  by 
182] 


Tempo 

the  fundamental  error  of  confounding  art  with 
the  craftsmanship  that  underlies  it.  A  painter 
can  learn  the  theory  of  colors,  perspective  and 
foreshortened  drawing,  anatomy  and  the  play 
of  muscles  in  their  various  actions;  but  to 
put  upon  the  canvas  a  human  being  that  has 
character  and  makes  a  living  appeal  to  the 
beholder,  stirring  his  heart  and  awakening 
responsive  feelings  there  that  bring  to  the  sur- 
face the  noblest  instincts  and  impulses  that 
were  slumbering  in  its  depths — that  cannot 
be  learned!  For  it  has  nothing  more  to  do 
w^ith  his  craftsmanship  than  has  his  breathing. 
The  power  to  impart  to  the  achievement  of 
his  workmanship  a  living  message  lies  in  the 
man,  himself;  in  the  inner  man.  It  lies  in  the 
education  of  his  heart,  an  education  based 
upon  the  mystery  of  his  innate  psychic  dis- 
position to  extract  from  the  experiences  of  his 
life  the  essence  which  develops  the  moral  side 
of  his  character  and  spirit.  Thus,  when  we 
speak  of  Beethoven  as  a  great  musician,  we 
do — I  hope — not  mean  a  man  who  had  by 
dint  of  hard  work  acquired  exceptional  skill 
in  writing  counterpoint  (which,  in  fact,  was 
not  the  strongest  side  of  him),  or  who  had  all 
the  regulations  and  rules  of  musical  composition 
at  his  fingers'  ends,  but  we  do  mean  a  great 
soul  whose  medium  of  utterance  happened  to 
be  music. 

[831 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

It  is  remarkable  how  few  have  a  realization 
of  this  fact,  and  how  difficult  it  is  to  convince 
the  others  of  its  being  a  fact.  The  average 
person  who  takes  music-lessons  sits  compla- 
cently down  before  the  piano,  opens  the  sheet 
music  and — instead  of  showing  now  the  result 
of  his  preparatory  work  for  the  purpose  of 
obtaining  trustworthy  criticism  and  such  addi- 
tional information  as  his  work  may  need  for 
its  improvement — asks  the  teacher:  How  fast 
ought  this  to  go?  How  shall  I  take  the  pedal? 
These,  and  kindred  questions,  are  asked  in  a 
tone  and  manner  as  if  one  had  been  requested 
to  wind  a  clock  and  asked:  Do  I  have  to 
turn  the  key  to  the  right  or  to  the  left?  The 
vision  of  the  notes  seems  to  be  conveyed  to 
the  motoric  nerve-center  of  the  brain,  and 
nowhere  else.  Is  it  not  evident  that  they 
conceive  the  art  of  music  as  a  mere  mechanical 
thing,  the  handling  of  which  is  merely  a 
matter  of  information?    And  yet, 

one  who  never  feels 

The  wanton  stings  and  notions  of  the  sense, 
But  does  rebate  and  blunt  his  natural  edge 
With  profits  of  the  mind," 

will  never  make  "music,"   however  much  he 
may  have  "learned,"  for — to  start  with — he 
will  never  find  the  right  tempo,  that  is,  the 
tempo  that  is  right  for  him. 
[84] 


Tempo 

■        I  ^^^™^^^— ^^—— — ^^■— ■^■^^™^— ^ 

go  to  your  bosom; 

Knock  there  and  ask  your  heart  what  it  does 
know. 

That  is  the  only  way  to  determine  the  tempo. 
It  is  the  only  way  by  which  the  super-wise 
editors  found  it  when  they  added  the  tempo- 
annotations  to  the  pianists'  music-bible,  The 
Well-tempered  Clavichord.  If  master  John 
Sebastian  could  only  return  to  earth!  He 
would  surely  ask  these  editors  why  they 
trusted  less  to  the  common  sense  of  humanity 
than  he  did  himself.  He  refrained  from  putting 
down  anything  but  the  bare  notes;  but  Czerny 
had  to  add  metronome-marks.  Czerny- — of 
all  men! 


[85  1 


Tone-Measuring  Through  the  Ear.* 

The  concluding  words  of  the  chapter  on 
thematic  "design"  were:  "there  must  be  no 
ambiguity  in  melody!"  What  I  warned  against 
there,  was  the  appearance  of  more  than  one 
tone  at  a  time  in  a  melody  through  the  careless 
prolonging  of  a  tone  after  it  is  supposed  to 
have  moved  to  another  one;  a  prolonging  which 
is  as  often  effected  through  carelessness  of  the 
fingers  as  of  the  foot  on  the  pedal,  though 
in  either  case  primarily  through  a  careless 
ear.  But  this  particular  form  of  carelessness 
is  by  no  means  the  only  one  that  destroys  the 
clarity  of  a  melody.  For  it  might  be  avoided 
altogether,  and  the  melody  still  be  unintelligible 
to  the  hearer.  While  there  may  never  have 
been  more  than  one  tone  heard  at  a  time; 
while  the  succession  of  tones  may  have  been 
correct  in  time  and  pitch,  the  melody  may  yet 
fail  utterly  in  a  musical  sense  "to  say  some- 
thing," because  the  dynamic  relation  between 
the  succeeding  tones  has  remained  unobserved. 
As  our  speech  is  not  composed  of  solitary 
utterances,  but  of  groups  of  words  of  which 
each   one,   besides    having   a    meaning   of   its 

*My  thanks  are  due  to  Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  for 
kindly  permitting  me  to  use  in  this  chapter  some  expressions 
and  designs  that  I  employed  in  an  article  contributed  to  their 
beautiful  publication,  "The  Music  of  the  Modern  World." 
[86] 


Tone-Measuring  Through  the  Ear 

own,  bears  upon  the  meaning  of  some  other 
word  or  words  in  the  group — so  do  the  notes 
of  a  melody  surely  signify  more  than  a  mere 
change  of  pitch  and  length.  They  are  not 
only  rhythmically,  but  also  dynamically  related 
one  to  another  in  the  same  manner  as  are  the 
words  of  a  sentence,  or  the  syllables  of  bi-  or 
tri-syllabic  words.  And  as  in  such  words  we 
do  not  pronounce  all  the  syllables  with  the 
same  force,  so  should  the  notes  of  a  melody 
likewise  differ  from  each  other. 

The  student  of  a  wind-  or  bow-instrument 
has  in  this  matter  a  great  advantage  over  the 
piano-student;  for  in  fixing  the  pitch  and 
quality  of  each  tone  that  he  produces,  he 
learns  from  the  very  start  to  consult,  and 
depend  upon,  the  judgment  of  his  ear.  The 
piano-student,  unfortunately,  when  hearing  a 
tone  out  of  pitch  on  his  instrument,  if  he  objects 
to  it  (which,  alas,  many  do  not),  simply  sends 
for  the  tuner.  This  lesser  dependence  upon 
his  ear  often  induces  the  piano-student  to 
neglect  that  attentive  control  over  his  tone 
which  the  ear  alone  can  exercise.  Since  his 
ear  is  not  needed  for  his  intonation,  he  often 
does  not  employ  it  at  all,  and  thus  the  dynamic 
element  in  his  playing  is  lost  sight  of  altogether. 

And,  yet,   it  is  just  the   dynamic  element 
which  appeals  most  directly  to  the  emotional 
faculties   of   the   listener,    to   whom   intervals 
[87] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

and  rhythms  are  only  intellectual,  not  emo- 
tional, concepts.  If  refined  harmonic  succes- 
sions, melodic  steps,  interesting  rhythms,  are 
to  affect  more  than  the  intelligence  of  the 
auditor,  if  they  are  to  penetrate  into  the 
sanctuary  of  his  feelings,  they  must  be  carried 
thither  by  a  nature-like  variety  of  dynamic 
degrees.  A  melody  played  or  sung  in  one 
monotonous  degree  of  force  can  awaken  no 
more  in  us  than  a  momentary  interest  in  its 
rhythms  and  intervals;  it  can  only  occupy 
our  sense  of  observation,  if  not  of  mere 
curiosity.  The  human  voice  is  the  most 
appealing  of  all  musical  instruments  because, 
even  in  its  natural  and  untrained  condition, 
it  is  compelled  to  make  dynamic  changes; 
to  increase  in  intensity  with  the  rise  and  to 
decrease  with  the  fall  of  the  melodic  intervals, 
besides  responding  dynamically  also  to  the 
significance  of  the  text-syllables  of  the  song. 

All  musical  instruments  (including  the  voice), 
with  the  sole  exception  of  the  piano,*  have 
three  forms  of  tone:     The  crescendo: 

the  steady  tone   in   any   degree  of  force: 


the  diminuendo: 

Of  these  three  forms  the  piano  possesses  only 

*The  harp,  on  account  of  its  utter  lack  of  any  distinguished 
literature,  cannot  be  considered  here. 
[88] 


Tone-Measuring  Through  the  Ear 

one,  the  diminuendo.  It  is  the  natural  tone- 
form  of  the  piano;  the  other  two  forms  must 
be  produced  through  artistic  deception;  the 
pianist  must  be  somewhat  of  an  illusionist. 
Fortunately,  the  modern  piano  offers  many 
means  to  produce  such  acoustic  deceptions 
and  many  realize  this;  but  of  the  one  form 
of  tone  which  really  is  the  piano's  own  they 
are  often  totally  unmindful  because,  while 
playing,  they  fail  to  employ  that  organ  which 
in  music-making  is  a  conditio  sine  qua  non — 
the  ear! 

Translated  into  a  visible  design,  the  form  of 
tone  inherent  in  the  piano  would  look  like  this: 


Hence,  a  crescendo  would  present  this  picture: 


[89] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

While  a  succession  of  tones  of  equal  strength 
would  be  like  this: 


Itgat 

J 

J 

J 

J 

J 

J 

J 

In  the  modern  piano  the  power  of  sustaining 
a  tone  is  so  well  developed  that,  in  a  rapid  tempo, 
such  a  succession  of  tones  might  practically 
amount  to  a  continuous  dynamic  uniformity. 
When,  however,  the  notes  of  a  melody  follow 
each  other  more  slowly  and  when  they  vary  in 
length,  as  they  must  in  the  nature  of  rhythm, 
then  the  matter  is  very  different;  for  then  the 
pianist  has  to  hear,  to  feel,  to  weigh  the  rela- 
tive importance  of  every  note,  as  to  the  part 
it  plays  in  the  whole  of  the  melody.  If,  for 
instance,  a  phrase  reaches  its  climax  upon  a 
long  tone,  the  next  one  should  not  be  struck 
without  considering  how  much  of  its  initial 
force  the  preceding  long  tone  has  lost  in  the 
course  of  its  duration. 

This  must  not  be  grotesquely  construed  to 
mean  that  every  piano-piece  should  begin 
Jorte  and  form  one  long,  continuous  diminuendo. 
By  no  means.  If  nothing  else,  the  rhythmical 
accents  alone  should  furnish  ample  material 
for  the  continual  replenishment  of  force.  It 
does  mean,  though,  that  the  diminuendo  is  the 
[90  1 


Tone-Measuring  Through  the  Ear 

tone-form  natural  to  the  piano;  that  It  is  the 
handiest  word  In  its  vocabulary  and  that  the 
pianist  should  make  the  best  possible  use  of  it. 

The  beginning  of  Chopin's  Nocturne  in  D 
flat,  op.  27,  No.  2,  may  illustrate  both  the 
necessity  and  the  eifectlveness  of  putting  the 
natural  diminuendo  to  its  proper  use. 

After  a  measure  introducing  the  accompani- 
ment-figure, the  first  tone  of  the  melody  enters 
upon  the  primary  (accented)  beat.  The  next 
tone  falls  likewise  upon  an  accented  beat  and 
is  at  once  followed  by  two  others  on  negative 
beats  which,  in  their  turn,  lead  to  the  next 
accented  tone  of  four  eighths  in  length. 
Upon  this  tone  a  crescendo  is  marked  which 
can  be  easily  produced  by  the  left  hand  and 
by  the  pedal  through  accumulation  of  tone- 
volume,  in  the  various  stages  of  which  the 
melody  in  the  right  hand  is  entitled  to  partici- 
pate while  it  rises  to  D  flat  and  to  F,  finally 
reaching  the  climax  upon  B  flat.  Ay,  but 
there — on  this  B  flat — there's  the  rub!  In 
music-making  I  know  of  nothing  more  heartless 
than  to  strike  the  following  A  flat  as  if  it  were 
entirely  unrelated  to  its  predecessor.  To  a 
halfway  sensitive  ear  it  is  shocking  to  hear 
this  A  flat  struck  without  consideration  of 
the  loss  of  power  the  preceding  B  flat  has 
experienced  by  the  time  the  A  flat  became 
due. 

[911 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 
The  proper  presentation  of  this  measure 

^^^^ 

translated  into  our  adopted  design,  would  be: 


A  still  stronger  illustration  is  furnished  by 
the  two  following  measures: 


The  first  note  lasts  through  the  whole  measure. 
However  strong  or  weak  it  was  when  struck, 
it  loses  power  constantly  while  it  lasts.  There- 
fore the  next  B  flat  ought  to  be  nicely  adjusted 
to  that  degree  of  force  to  which  the  A  has 
sunk  by  the  time  when  the  B  flat  was  due; 
for  the  two  notes  stand  in  precisely  the  same 
relation  to  each  other  as  do  the  two  syllables 
of  a  trochee,  say  "worning,"  "yonder." 

The  B  flat,  the  second  syllable,  should  therefore 

192  1 


Tone-Measuring  Through  the  Ear 


be   no   louder   in   proportion   to   the   A   than 
this  design  indicates  by  an  x  mark: 


or  else  this  B  flat  would  look  like  this; 


and  create  the  impression  of  starting  a  new 
phrase  before  the  preceding  suspension  was 
resolved.  It  would  be  very  confusing  to  the 
auditor  because  of  its  utter  unnaturalness, 

A  further  illustration  is  to  be  found  in 
Beethoven's  Sonata,  op.  14,  No.  i,  measures 
ten  and  twelve.  The  B  in  the  uppermost  part 
lasts  through  the  whole  measure.  It  is  the 
melodic  terminus  of  the  descending  scale  in 
the  preceding  measure  and,  introduced  as  it  is, 
has  considerable  force.  While  it  lasts,  there 
[93] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

occur  a  number  of  harmonic  shiftlngs  in  the 
lower  and  subordinate  parts.  The  measure 
looks  thus: 


but  who  has  not  heard  it  played  like  this? 


In  the  form  of  our  adopted  design  it  should, 
of  course,  present  itself  thus: 


[94 


Tone-Measuring  Through  the  Ear 


and  not  like  this: 


B 

-I^^]]]^ 

~~"~^ 

Gt 

Gt| 

fT"""-^- 

=:=^ 

B 

■ 

A| 

Dt 

All 

B 

B 

^^-^ 

^ -^ 

which  shows  that  every  little  harmonic  shift- 
ing destroyed  the  connection  with  all  that 
preceded  it,  and  that  the  poor  B  of  the  melody 
(see  dotted  line)  was,  as  early  as  in  the  second 
beat,  quite  crushed  out  of  tonal  existence. 

The  Allegretto  of  the  same  Sonata  shows  a 
similar  case  in  the  transition  from  the  third  to 
the  fourth  measure.  The  chord  in  measure  3  is 
the  climax  of  the  first  phrase.  Its  melodic  G 
lasts  into  the  next  measure;  but  underneath  it  a 
changeof  harmony hastakenplace.  Thischange 
should  be  made  so  delicately  that  the  second  of 
the  two  harmonies  enters  without  crushing  the 
continuing  G  of  the  melody,  in  order  that  this 
melody  may  be  understood  to  be  thus: 


[95] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 


and  not  as  if  it  were  meant  thus: 


These  few  examples  may  suffice  to  illustrate 
what  is  meant  by  "tone-measuring  through 
the  ear."  Like  all  the  finer  problems  in  art, 
this  matter  of  tone-measuring  is  very  subtle 
and  elusive.  And  I  gladly  reiterate  what  I 
have  said  on  many  other  matters  in  piano- 
playing,  namely,  that  it  cannot  be  treated 
dogmatically,  but  only  as  a  suggestion.  Never- 
theless, something  like  a  very  frequently 
applicable  rule  can  be  deduced  from  the  fore- 
going illustrative  designs  by  any  one  who  is 
not  altogether  impervious  to  the  musical  in- 
wardness and  meaning  of  a  melody.  I  venture 
to  formulate  it  in  this  way: 

Whenever  a  long  melody-tone  is  followed  by 
a  shorter  one,  the  significance  of  the  long 
tone  as  to  the  place  it  occupies  in  the  phrase 
should  be  ascertained  and,  if  found  to  be 
analogous  to  the  penultimate  or  antepenul- 
timate emphasis  in  speech,  its  decline  of 
force  during  its  continuance  should  govern 
the  strength  of  the  following,  shorter  tone. 
This  applies  with  particular  nicety  when  the 
second  tone  occurs  on  a  weak  part  of  the 
[96] 


Tone-Measuring  Through  the  Ear 

measure,  as  for  example  in  the  first  illustration 
of  this  chapter. 

Proper  attention  to  this  matter  will  go  very 
far  toward  converting  mere  piano-playing  into 
actual  music-making;  for  it  will  "humanize"  the 
melody;  it  will  give  it  life,  naturalness  and  sen- 
suous beauty,  which  latter  quality,  as  we  saw 
on  page  21,  is  of  primary  importance  in  art. 


[971 


Conclusion. 

On  page  83  it  was  said  that  the  transmu- 
tation of  mere  craftsmanship  into  artistry 
"cannot  be  learned."  Yet  this  entire  little 
volume  seems  to  aim  at  nothing  else.  But  it 
only  seems  so,  because  it  was  taken  for  granted 
that  the  reader  is  gifted  with  a  certain  faculty 
which,  so  far,  has  been  only  veiledly  hinted 
at.    This  faculty  is 

THE    MUSICAL    WILL. 

The  distinction  between  a  wish  and  a  will 
is  not  quite  clear  to  the  minds  of  many  people. 
Without  needlessly  going  into  the  abstractions 
of  thinkers  like  Kant  and  Schopenhauer — 
who  have  based  their  systems  of  thought  upon 
the  "will" — we  may  safely  assume  that  the 
will  is  the  highest  intensification  of  the  wish. 
In  desire  or  wish  the  center  of  gravity  lies  on 
the  sensuous  and  psychic  sides  of  our  life.  In 
becoming  "will"  the  point  of  balance  has  been 
shifted  to  the  moral  and  intellectual  side;  for 
reason,  perciplence  and  judgment  must  have 
entered  into  its  formation.  The  will  is,  there- 
fore, the  determination — coupled  with  the  re- 
quisite physical  and  mental  equipment — to 
attain  by  energetic,  centralized  action  the 
object  of  our  wish.  (It  will  be  hardly  possible 
[98] 


Conclusion 

to  understand,  even  as  an  abstract  philoso- 
pheme,  a  will  that  was  not  preceded  by  the 
wish.)  Hence,  the  difference  resolves  itself 
into  one  of  intensity  and  potency;  of  mere 
craving,  yearning,  longing  on  the  one  side 
and  of  well-directed  and  persistent  action  on 
the  other. 

Speaking  musically,  the  two  propositions  of 
wish  and  will  stand  in  precisely  the  same 
relations;  for  In  music,  too,  the  will  must  be 
called  forth  by  the  wish.  The  musical  wish 
may  emanate,  for  instance,  from  the  joy  we 
feel  when  a  worthy  composition  unfolds  its 
ultimate  meaning  to  us  at  the  piano  and  thus 
creates  in  us  the  desire  to  communicate  this 
joy  to  our  brother.  But,  alas,  this  unfolding 
did  not  come  to  us  through  our  hearing  alone; 
our  eyes,  the  motions  of  our  fingers  and  arms, 
the  physical  exertions  corresponding  with  the 
dynamic  changes  in  the  piece,  all  these  have 
aided  us  in  obtaining  an  insight  Into  the 
moods  and  thoughts  of  the  composition — 
an  Insight  sufficient  unto  ourselves.  Two 
consecutive  phrases,  which  ought  to  have  been 
separated,  but  were  not — our  eyes,  seeing 
them  detached  from  each  other,  are  more  than 
likely  to  convey  them  so  detached  to  our 
musical  perception;  an  embellishing  little  run, 
which  our  fingers  may  have  spoiled  in  its 
execution — our  vision,  perceiving  how  smoothly 
[99] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

it  is  meant  to  be  played,  carries  it  to  our 
musical  imagination  in  all  its  intended  smooth- 
ness; ay,  even  a  harshly  sounding,  false  note 
disturbs  us — sometimes — only  until  our  eye 
has  detected  and  corrected  the  error.  Yet, 
in  spite  of  such  defects  and  blemishes,  we 
may  be  perfectly  able  to  "understand"  the 
piece  and,  having  done  so,  we  feel  at  once  like 
asking  our  brother:  "Is  it  not  beautiful?"  Our 
brother,  however,  has  but  scant  praise  for  it, 
because  we  invited  his  attention  to  our  inter- 
pretation of  the  piece  while  we  were  still  in 
the  stage  of  the  "wish."  While,  in  a  sense,  we 
were  "perfectly  willing"  that  he  should  under- 
stand and  appreciate  the  piece,  we  were  still 
very,  very  far  from  having  "willed"  it. 

To  attain  to  this  higher  stage  it  will  be 
necessary  that — for  a  while,  at  least — we  re- 
nounce our  own  enjoyment  of  the  piece  and 
devote  much,  and  right  unpleasant,  work  to 
it.  It  requires  close  self-observation,  much 
vexatious  experimenting,  keen  searching,  criti- 
cal listening  to  the  actual  result  of  our  efforts, 
and  an  inflexible,  indomitable  determination 
to  play  the  piece  with  such  technical  and 
spiritual  perfection  that  our  brother  shall  and 
must  understand  it.  The  fortitude  to  impose 
upon  ourselves  these,  mostly  trying,  experi- 
ences and  to  brave  them  for  the  sake  of  our 
brother;  this  altruism,  that  bears  the  noblest 
[100] 


Conclusion 

egoism  in  its  depths;  this  unshakable  deter- 
mination to  put  into  living  tonal  reality  what 
we  have  mentally  extracted  from  the  cold, 
printed  pages  with  the  combined  assistance 
of  our  eyes,  ears,  hands  and  feet;  this  is  the 
pianist's — musical  tvill! 

In  any  pianist  who  reaches  for  a  book  like 
this,  the  presence  of  this  musical  will  must  be 
presupposed.  It  was,  therefore,  unnecessary 
to  dwell  upon  it  at  the  beginning  of  the  book, 
where  it  might  have  assumed  the  forbidding 
look  of  a  barrier  which  only  the  chosen  few 
could  surmount.  The  musical  will  is  given 
to  all  of  us  who  have  normal  hands,  normal 
ears,  and  strength  of  character  in  a  normal 
degree.  It  is  given  to  all  of  us  in  nucleo,  and, 
as  "the  lofty  oak  from  a  small  acorn  grows," 
so  can  this  nucleus,  planted  in  the  soil  of  our 
character,  develop  into  that  power  which 
alone  can  change  us  from  a  self-pleased 
dilettante  into  an  artist. 


Though  fully  aware  that  this  little  book 
suffers  from  many  shortcomings,  I  hope  that 
the  reader  who  looks  a  little  deeper,  a  little 
beyond  its  palpable  defects  in  expression  and 
wording,  will  allow  its  well-meant  purpose  to 
atone  for  them.  For  this  purpose  was  no 
other  than  to  save  the  reader  some  of  the 
[101] 


Ethics  and  Esthetics  of  Piano-Playing 

vexations  inseparable  from  serious  study;  to 
state  in  plain  words  some  of  the  things  he  may 
have  felt  as  a  mere  uncertain  notion;  and  to 
encourage  him  to  do  what,  after  honest  and 
sincere  thinking,  seems  right  to  him,  though 
this  may  involve  the  breaking  with  any  tradi- 
tion that  militates  against  the  world's  modern 
and  enlightened  conception  of  music.  He 
should,  therefore,  not  accept  and  follow  any 
suggestions  and  advice  given  here  without 
testing  them  first  with  the  touchstone  of  his 
individual  thinking  and  without  assuring  him- 
self that  the  advice  selected  applies  to  the  case 
he  may  be  dealing  with.  I  said,  for  instance, 
that  many  of  the  accentuation-marks  upon 
negative  time-beats  serve  only  to  indicate 
the  starting  of  a  new  phrase.  The  reader 
might  ask  how  he  can  distinguish  them  from 
those  which  do  imply  an  emphasis.  Alas, 
I  could  not  tell  him;  but  I  have  warned  him 
against  an  unthinking  and  unquestioning  accep- 
tance of  such  signs.  I  have  asked  him  to 
reflect,  to  bestow  thought  upon  something 
which,  hitherto,  he  may  have  disregarded 
entirely  or  taken  too  easily  for  granted.  In 
a  similar  manner  I  have  suggested  that  he 
may  sometimes  make  a  pause  where  none  is 
printed.  How  long  this  pause  should  be,  and 
just  where  it  should  be  placed,  only  a  teacher 
of  well-trained  and  refined  taste  can  tell  him. 
f  102  1 


Conclusion 

I  hope,  however,  to  have  stimulated  the  stu- 
dent's own  thinking  and  feeling  so  as  to  make 
him  search  for  both  the  length  and  the  placing 
of  the  art-pause.  If  he  will  but  persist  in  his 
search,  he  is  bound  to  find  what  he  seeks, 
and  when  he  has  found  it  by  his  own  endeavor 
he  will  feel  that  his  musical  grasp  has  widened, 
that  his  own  inner  consciousness  has  begun 
to  bear  fruit;  and  at  the  same  time  he  will 
have  provided  that  rare  pleasure  for  his  teacher 
of  discussing,  and  probably  approving,  a 
pupil's  idea  instead  of  doing — as  so  often  he 
does — the  pupil's  thinking. 


[  103 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles        g^p    .  4  ^935 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


UBRARY 

ML 

3853 

S67 


